


House of The Rising Sun

by smokyquartz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient magic, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Blood Magic, Canon compliant up to fourth year, Draco is a lot, F/M, Minor Character Death, New Orleans, New Setting, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Original Character - Freeform, Pining, Sexual Content, flashbacks to Hogwarts, i was too scared to write dramione, it feels like dramione if you don't think about it, let me live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28197246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokyquartz/pseuds/smokyquartz
Summary: Draco Malfoy was just beginning to adjust to his new life of freedom when a slew of death threats bring back an old acquaintance, throwing him into a new world with a witch begrudgingly helping him survive it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter One

_Then_

Draco Malfoy’s fifteen year old self liked to spend his angst-filled spare time walking the long corridors of Hogwarts castle. Skulking and thinking of a few insults he could throw at the _insufferable_ golden group of do-gooders, should he happen upon them. 

  
His own posse became too much to handle that night, endlessly excited over which Hogwarts student would compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Pansy kept inching over to him on the common room sofa, getting into his space so much it made his skin crawl, and he just wanted _out_. 

  
He made some excuse about bothering one of the elves for a late dessert, not finding it within him to care about lights-out being in less than twenty minutes. He figured that if he said he was getting dessert, he might as well do it anyway.

  
This is how he found himself locking eyes with a startled girl in an alcove, a pudding spoon in his mouth. Her dark eyebrows sailed to her forehead, the pile of books she was levitating wandlessly falling into a heap on her lap. 

  
Draco let out a real dignified, “Uh…” 

  
She just continued to stare at him for a moment, then started putting the books in a school bag. He noticed her green and silver tie then, and the insignia on her fallen robes. She looked about his age, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing her around.

  
“What year are you?”

  
“Fourth,” she said quickly, apparently ready to take off in any direction that wasn’t him. 

  
Distaste covered his tongue and he pulled a sour face, “Gods, you almost sound American.”

  
“What’s it to you?”

  
Either she was putting on airs or she really was some stranger in his house’s robes. She didn’t wait for an answer, shoving past him and back towards the dungeons. His curiosity didn’t outweigh his dread of those in the common room, so he sauntered his way down the dimly lit hall. 

_Now_

Draco Malfoy inhaled the sweet stench of alcohol until the inside of his nose burned. His palms began slipping around the glass with sweat as his silver eyes strained to focus on the commotion around him. Part of him didn’t believe any of it was real - that he may as well be lost to his own mind in a musty cell. Far, far away. 

  
He should be celebrating.

  
He felt it in his chest, that outpouring of _glee_ of not getting more than a slap on the wrist after his year long wait in Azkaban for a sentencing. The trial was mostly lost to him as he had sat in the far corner of the cage and listened to the Wizengamot prattle on for days about all his wrongs. The few times he looked up were when testimonies from Potter and Granger disturbed his occlumency enough to listen. He was left alone for a few hours at a time as they reviewed submitted memories and somehow came to the conclusion that he was no real danger to society. 

  
Perhaps shoving one Weasel out of the way of a killing curse had tipped them in his favor. 

  
Draco presently stood at his mother’s side with a nearly bored expression on his face as the charity gala in the Manor around him continued. He knew she had only thrown it to better their image, though a donation to the war survivors with lasting injuries at St. Mungo’s didn’t hurt anything. It was beautiful, he could admit, especially with the floating candles and newly decorated ballroom full of silvers and white. 

  
Narcissa herself hadn’t even been in Azkaban before her trial, simply on house arrest and fairly recently acquitted. The only Malfoy to see any real punishment was Lucius with ten years sentenced, up for an appeal in five. Draco didn’t mind the peace that was the absence of his father - even if it did push his mother into a particularly collected state that he didn’t care for much. 

  
He glanced at his mother as she floated away from him to greet some healers or whoever that Draco couldn’t be bothered to remember the names of, instead swirling a tumbler of firewhisky at his side as Theo Nott approached him.

  
“Well, Draco, don’t you look like shit,” Theo sipped on a glass of champagne, his bright blue eyes lighting up at the sight of his old friend. “A year in a cell really did wonders for that complexion.”

  
“I’d bet I still got more letters from women in there than you did out here, Nott,” Draco resisted the urge to smirk as Theo rolled his eyes at him. 

  
“Any of them pique your interest? Plenty of purebloods around here,” Theo leaned against the wall next to Draco, his stare catching a strawberry-blonde who looked just out of Hogwarts across the ballroom. 

  
The question shouldn’t have thrown him - he knew that - but the thought of courting someone in his state seemed laughable. He wasn’t fond of the way he looked in that moment - the once perfectly tailored clothes hanging off of his too-thin frame, his shaggy hair, sunken eyes, and almost paler than death skin certainly weren’t boosting his ego. 

  
Being on his own felt fitting. 

  
“Isn’t that what got us into this mess in the first place?”

  
“No, that is from generations of inbreeding,” Theo gave a breathless laugh, like he didn’t know what else to do about it anymore. He hadn’t been sent to Azkaban, as no one could really prove he was involved in anything. Simply hiding in his recently executed father’s shadow. 

  
“Looking for a decent half-blood then?” Draco finally spotted Blaise Zabini near the entrance to the ballroom, giving him a nod to come over through the sea of people.

  
“Something like that.”

  
“I hear the Greengrass sisters are still available,” he felt his resolve beginning to falter. He had only been freed for a handful of weeks and doing more than walking around the Manor made him more weary than he’d like to admit. 

  
“Weren’t you supposed to be the younger one’s betrothed?” Theo quirked an eyebrow at him. 

  
“Mother decided that after our ordeal I could exercise more autonomy over my life.”

  
_Not that I knew what to do with it._

  
“At least you’ve got a life. Mine got so bloody boring over the past year I almost asked your mother to arrange something for me.”

  
“Getting close with dear Narcissa, are we?” Blaise sauntered up to them, dressed in midnight blue robes that caught more than one older woman’s interest nearby. Draco’s mood began to improve with his two friends in the world at his side, knowing full well they were judging the party-goers as much as he. 

  
“I would rather be anywhere else,” Theo said.

  
“Then why are you here?” Draco looked over at him.

  
“Oh that’s purely because of your mother. Thought she might be getting lonely these days.”

  
“Do fuck off, Theo,” Draco muttered, unformally crossing his arms over his chest. He rested his head against the wall and allowed his eyes to close for a moment, just long enough to hear a familiar laugh ring out. 

  
His eyes snapped open at the noise. It wasn’t loud, but distinct. He knew it because it was practiced and precise, just sweet enough to feel genuine. He searched the room for a familiar face and was ready to chastise himself for whipping his head around in the least subtle maneuver he could manage. 

  
Even worse, he felt a pang of disappointment in his gut when he couldn’t find the source. 

  
Narcissa appeared to have finished her rounds, making her way towards her son, and pretending to not be annoyed at his dragging feet towards the small stage. The band halted their waltz as the lady of the Manor ascended the stage to a small applause. Draco stood a few feet to her left as she began a carefully recited speech about honoring the healers, efforts, and moving forward in it all. 

  
As if on cue, his left arm began to ache sharply for a moment.

  
He allowed his eyes to glance around the crowd. Not searching, he told himself, just looking. 

  
“...My son Draco and I are so honored to have you all with us tonight. Please do enjoy the rest of the evening,” Narcissa gave a dazzling smile and exited the stage on her son’s arm. “At least pretend to want to better your reputation, dear,” She muttered to him. He rolled his eyes. 

  
“I’ll get right on that, Mother.”

  
Narcissa gave a rather undignified sigh and pulled him towards Minister Shacklebolt, who was having a rather animated conversation with another ministry lackey. 

  
“Minister, I’d like to formally introduce you to my son.”

  
“Oh, I assure you, we are well acquainted,” Shacklebolt eyed Draco carefully, his dark hand tensing slightly at his side. 

  
“I’d like to make the acquaintance under better circumstances, Minister,” Narcissa focused her attention solely on the man, “I think we could all use a new beginning.”

  
“There have certainly been quite a few people to ensure that possibility,” Shacklebolt hummed and kept his gaze on Draco, who personally, felt his platinum hair grow whiter by the moment. “What is it you intend to do with your newfound freedom?”

  
“I’m keeping my options open at the moment,” Draco forced a sense of decorum to sneak up his spine. “Though a goal of mine is to join the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and hopefully do some good there.”

  
“As an auror?”

  
“Exactly. I did well with problem solving in school and I think I would do well in a practical approach,” Draco felt Narcissa’s hold on his arm constrict ever so softly.   
The Minister appeared to weigh this piece of information, glancing around the room before setting his serious eyes on Draco once again.

  
“Well, if you’d like to get a headstart on that goal of yours, there has been a vacancy in auror training. Or so I’ve heard from Robards.” Shacklebolt appeared to have caught the eye of someone over Draco’s shoulder. “Perhaps we could arrange a meeting.”

  
“I’d like that very much, sir.” Draco offered his hand and the Minister took it, ready to be removed from the conversation as Narcissa bid him away. The posture he was holding faltered a little in the absence of conversation, viewing the empty space in front of him as a breath of fresh air. He saw Theo talking to a young woman near the entrance, disappearing around the corner with a far too satisfied expression. 

  
“I didn’t know you wanted to be an auror,” Narcissa’s features twisted slightly, as if she expected him to traipse off into the playboy lifestyle when he got the chance. 

  
“New beginnings, right?” Draco let out a breath. “I’m going to step out for a moment.”

  
“It’s only a few more hours, dear,” she allowed a hint of exasperation to tint her tone, her hands leaving his arm to smooth out the flawless evening gown. 

  
“Just a moment,” he promised, leaning down to peck her cheek, gliding away to the balcony at the far side of the ballroom. The relief flooded his veins with each step away from the crowd, ignoring a few of the figures that might’ve attempted to approach him if he’d been walking with a little less purpose. 

  
A familiar, warm and woodsy scent caught his attention for a second, sinking his gut, but he quickly dismissed it and pulled open the door to the deserted balcony. He took a few slow steps towards the far end, each pace further muffling the noise of the party, and leaned into the railing. 

  
The view was simply a serene English countryside, except for the meticulously maintained gardens at the beginning of the property, and he allowed his mind to sink into the nostalgia. The night air had an unseasonal bite to it for early May, though the sky was clear and bright enough to pick up the crystal facets within the grey stone of the building. 

  
A shiver raced across his skin and he began to get the sensation that he was out of place. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling since he’d been back to the Manor, but it had also never been quite so visceral. 

  
The squeak in the door handle had Draco shaking his head in annoyance.

  
“I said a moment, Mother-” the air seemed to be sucked from his lungs as a middle-aged man he had never seen before approached with his wand trained directly at Draco’s chest. He was dressed in decent robes - he must’ve been a party guest - though there wasn’t anything distinct about him to say what he was doing there.

Especially what he was doing on the balcony, ready to accost the Malfoy heir. 

  
The man’s eyes were blank as sweat dripped down the side of his scruffy face, looking nearly lost in thought, but his wand remained pointed and ready to cast. 

  
“Ante mortem-” the man began, his wand arm rearing back as Draco reached for his own, his thumb catching on the lining of his pocket before the familiar wood slipped into his fingers. 

  
“ _Stupefy!_ ”

  
The stranger dropped like a stone onto the balcony as Draco settled into a dueling position. His breath became ragged, realizing the crackle in his skin from using magic was absent. And it wasn’t his voice who had cast it. 

  
A lacy, jet black gown came into view first, the lines elegant and framing a trim figure of someone far too recognizable to him. 

  
“What the hell are you doing here?” Draco seethed, flipping the switch into anger more swiftly than he ever had. The woodsy scent filled his mind with a plague of memories. He did his best to ignore the wavy black hair pulled into a classy style, the lightly painted face, and flickering of emotions in dark green eyes. She pursed her lips, stepping further into the moonlight to grab the wand of the nearly forgotten man at her feet. 

  
“Oh, just in time, I see.” The Minister joined them, looking unsurprised at Draco still ready to fend off someone. “You can lower your wand, Mr. Malfoy.”

  
“I want to know what in Merlin’s name is going on here!” Draco snipped, his fingers beginning to twitch. “Why that man was about to attack me and why the hell you knew about it.”

  
“If you’d like to accompany me to the ministry, Mr. Malfoy, I’ll be happy to explain it to you there,” Shacklebolt waved on an auror from the ballroom to restrain the unconscious man laying between them. He leaned towards the last person Draco wanted to see and said something too quietly for him to pick up on. The blood rushing through his ears certainly didn’t help any. She nodded, handing over the man’s wand, and not sparing a glance as she made her way back into the ballroom. 

  
Draco’s heartbeat began to slow and his wand arm fell to his side before his brain could catch up with the motion. He bit back a response to the Minister, thinking maybe he’d prove to be a little less of the petulant child he felt like in that moment. 

-

Death threats.

  
_Death threats._ Draco’s head swam after his debriefing with the Minister and a few aurors. Investigators he managed to endlessly annoy with his lack of useful information beyond two words. 

  
He realized quickly that he had more questions for them than they did for him. 

  
Shacklebolt was calm and assured as he told Draco and Narcissa that they had received a threat against the Malfoys, that the person would likely strike at the party, and it was over from then on. 

  
The Minister, however, could not provide any answers from the offending wizard because he still remained unconscious. Apparently the witch who’d gotten him down had cast with some strong intent. 

  
Whenever Draco would ask what the hell was she doing there without alerting his mother to his ire, Shacklebolt would circumvent it. He sent them on their way late into the night, attempting to assuage Narcissa’s worries for their continued safety at the Manor by telling them to simply strengthen the wards. As if they weren’t already borne of blood magic.

  
Draco stayed behind at the ministry, telling his mother that he wanted to speak to an auror about training, and she was nearly tired enough to believe him. Or at least not to fight him on it. 

  
He then owled Blaise to check in on Narcissa at some point during the night before figuring out exactly who he needed to charm to get an address.

  
Draco found himself standing outside of a quaint flat in wizarding London. It was the lowermost portion of a duplex, clearly an ancient house split up recently, covered in ivy to the point that it’d fool the passerby into thinking it might be abandoned. 

  
He peered closer to one of the windows, noting the faintest shimmer of disillusionment, and began to debate what bloody spell he’d use to blast open the door. 

  
Unfortunately for his ego, the door swung open as he’d gotten his wand up. Air left his lungs as if he weren’t actually expecting to see the witch standing before him.

  
“I suppose I should’ve been expecting you, Draco.” The flattened, American accent fell from unsmiling lips. She evaluated his lanky appearance with a neutral expression, significantly dressed down from earlier. It was nearing the middle of the night, her makeup gone, but the muggle jeans and jumper didn’t appear to be wrinkled from sleep.

  
“Macaria,” he nearly choked on the name, dropping his hands to his sides. 

  
“Come in,” she stepped to the side and ran her fingers through the now loose hair. He hesitated and she pushed the door closed an inch before his palm came in harsh contact with it. “I do plan on sleeping eventually, so please move beyond the pace of a snail.”

  
“Forgive me,” he sneered.”I've had a rather unpleasant evening.”

  
“Couldn’t agree more.” She left him to close the door, taking up a brisk pace to what he assumed was the kitchen as he followed. The interior of the flat was mostly dark and bare, sheets that had once been on furniture sat in heaps on the floor. Bright, rectangular patches of wallpaper where portraits must have hung. He expected dust to be heavy in the air, but it smelled of something sweet and homely. 

  
Macaria had already gotten two tumblers down and was working on pouring out some firewhisky as he stepped around the kitchen island. Her hand shook slightly as she stoppered the bottle as he did his best to ward off any recollection of when her fingers used to tremble. 

  
“I don’t suppose it matters, but how did you get this address?” She pushed one glass to him, tone more curious than anything else. 

  
“Figured out who I needed to bribe. Unfortunately for you, the ministry bloke you rented from didn’t need much encouragement.”

  
“At least it’s only temporary, Malfoy.” She gave a tired smile and lifted the glass to her heart-shaped lips, grimacing only slightly at the alcohol. 

  
“Lightlauder,” Draco appraised her, leaning over the counter a bit. “Only here for me, then?” He slowly circled the island, teasing the rim of the glass as it followed his movements with a silent spell. 

  
“Just for the fundraiser, really. A shame it ended prematurely,” she didn’t back down, simply stared at him like he was anyone else. Draco cocked his head at her with the shadow of a smirk playing around his mouth. 

  
“Not something you’re familiar with?”

  
“Oh, it’s been at least a year,” she said lowly as he allowed his eyes to trace over her features, high cheekbones and a button nose on a diamond-shaped face. The green in her eyes alluring like a silent forest, strife with secrets wrapped in blatant honesty. Draco was unhurried in his assessment and he knew the longer he took to look at her, the faster her pulse would race.

  
If only he touched her…

  
“What are you doing here?”

  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” His eyes flashed. 

  
“I believe you already did,” Macaria downed the rest of the glass. “So tell me, what is it that finally led you here, one year too late?”

  
“Straight to the point, as ever,” he sighed, the air tousling a few hairs framing her face. 

  
“You don’t have the luxury of time this round. So either play or get out,” her words were soft, but he knew the intent wasn’t. 

“Time is all I’ve got these days - or don’t you read the papers?”

  
She snorted.

  
“You’d be surprised,” she shook her head and turned away from him, the flourish filling his lungs with that earthy scent. He felt his blood rushing through his veins again and his fingers gripped the edge of the counter. 

  
In a move he would normally consider as foolhardy, he let his free hand reach out to her shoulder. The touch sent an internal shock and she whipped around to face him again, a new flare in her eyes. 

  
“Don’t you dare,” Macaria openly glared for the first time that night. Her eyes suddenly widened and a chill raced up his back as the front door blew off its hinges, the splintered heap landing at the entrance of the kitchen.

  
A ringing in Draco’s ears from the explosion made his vision go blurry with the intensity. Macaria pulled him behind her as she fired off a few hexes towards the gap in the house. If he weren’t so out of sorts he would have liked to be a little less useless in the moment. 

  
“Accio bag!”

  
The words echoed around him. He realized he was on the floor, back against the island watching through dazed lenses as Macaria furiously dug through a purse, grabbing a smaller bag within it and slinging the other over her shoulder. 

  
She fired off another hex before a muggle pen slipped through both of their fingers, a pull behind his navel, a rush of fresh air as she clung to him. 

  
The sharp sting of his feet hitting pavement broke his trance. His eyes snapped open as a rush of humidity washed over his skin. Draco couldn’t be sure if the sound of a saxophone was real or not as he watched Macaria get her bearings.

  
“Where the fuck are we?”

  
Macaria looked at him as if it was obvious. 

  
“New Orleans.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early. Merry Chrysler

_ Then _

Draco hated not being one step ahead. 

His fourth year was going to be even more spoiled than he anticipated. A rally of Death Eaters at the World Cup was one thing, then Potter being paraded around as the second champion.

_ Bullocks _ , he thought.  _ All of it _ . 

“Stop scowling,” Pansy huffed. “You’re throwing off my steps.”

He supposed he should’ve kept his head a little more in the moment. He probably hadn’t even looked at Pansy for the better part of the waltz, eyes clouded over with his own self-pity. Apparently, she couldn’t even appreciate the opportunity to comfort him then. The other pairs on the ballroom floor were spinning around them or on the outskirts and just enjoying the atmosphere. 

Once she finally wanted off of the dancefloor, he took the chance to get a spiked drink from Blaise and Theo, crowding with them against one wall as they made fun of anyone they laid their eyes on. 

Draco didn’t realize he was searching for someone in particular til he found them. Or, well he noticed the shock of red hair standing almost a foot above her. The mildly embarrassing moment involving his favorite dessert was better forgotten in his book, but it puzzled him because he hadn’t seen her anywhere since. 

Granted, he wasn’t the most observant. Seeing her dancing with one of the Weasels - and actually seeming to enjoy it nearly set him off. 

_ Who are you to make her laugh? _

_ Now _

Draco’s mind whipped through a hundred different scenarios, rendering him speechless for once as Macaria transfigured their clothes into muggle evening wear. She then placed glamour charms on herself, making her hair short and a natural red. Then, her eyes blue. 

She turned her wand on him again as he leaned further into the brick wall of the alleyway, the stench of seafood and saltwater permeating his nostrils. He flinched as she applied more charms to him, though what he looked like, he hadn’t the faintest idea. 

The saxophone continued on, growing louder as she grasped his hand and pulled him out to the street. From what he’d seen in books, it appeared to be the French Quarter - and not the wizarding sector - if there was one. He didn’t know. 

Draco’s eyes widened at the sight of a two man band sitting outside of a bar, flush with patrons. There were people everywhere, muggles he assumed, getting drunk at what must’ve been late afternoon. The atmosphere was overwhelming, the singing, the drinking, the lively nature of the small crowds she was pulling them through. Her grip on him was near bruising, but he was too focused on the old French architecture, the rain puddles reflecting a reddening and clear sky. 

Macaria let out a frustrated huff when he didn’t immediately follow her into a gothic-looking shop squished between a few others in a building at the end of the block. He whipped his head around, looking at the skulls and cauldrons in the windows. His brow furrowed at the sign hanging above the door,  _ A Witch’s World _ . 

“Is this a muggle shop?” His lips twisted into a frown. 

“Oh, come  _ on _ !” She berated him and he pretended it didn’t feel like getting scolded by his mother. He let her drag him into the place, gawking over all the witchcraft objects clearly peddled for tourists. It felt insulting to his very core and he pursed his mouth as Macaria pulled him to the very back of the shop, clearing away a thick black curtain to what looked like an entirely different store. 

This one was much dimmer, little outside light coming in, and from what Draco could surmise, it was genuine wizarding potions and books. Tapestries of lineages lined one wall, swathes of black and silver fabrics on the others not occupied by tall shelves of artifacts. If he weren’t feeling so awash with other emotions, he might’ve been excited by the prospect. 

“Athalie? Are you here?” Macaria said, her eyes darting around the secondary room. She hadn’t let go of his arm. He figured it was either unintentional or she didn’t want to risk him making a run for it. 

“One moment!” A strangely accented voice rang out from the muggle side. He couldn’t decide if it sounded more French or Eastern-American. 

About a minute passed and Macaria finally dropped his arm. He rubbed at it, nearly determined to make her feel bad about how hard she held it, but she just rolled her eyes. A young black woman with coiled hair the color of honey stepped out from behind the curtain, a plastered smile immediately dropping in recognition of the girl next to him. Athalie quickly grasped her in a tight hug.

“Oh, my dear,” Athalie pulled back to evaluate Macaria’s face, who’s eyes flashed with something Draco didn’t understand. “Why are you looking like a tourist again?”

“Is it still there? I need it. I don’t know how long,” Macaria shook her head and Athalie squeezed her arms.

“Of course. As long as you need it, I haven’t touched a thing.” She turned her attention to Draco. “Might I ask who this young man is?”

“You’d recognize him as a blonde,” Macaria looked pointedly at him and he grew even more uncomfortable, somehow. 

“Oh. That one.”

Draco’s eye twitched and he felt a retort ready to roll off of his tongue, but the newly red-head’s shove at his shoulder towards a door between the two shops silenced him. She pulled it open and he followed up creaky, painted-black stairs to another door with a series of complicated wards and locks on it. Once through, he felt an intense bolt of panic race down his spine. 

“Fuck!”

Macaria jumped as the door swung open to a hallway.

“ _ What _ ?” 

“I don’t have my fucking wand, that’s what!” All of the confused emotions that had been bubbling up twisted into rage. He kicked at the step above him and immediately regretted it. “Fucking hell. Fuck.”

“Do you want to go back and get it?”

“Oh, shut up,” he sneered. “Sarcasm clearly isn’t beneath you.”

“Amongst other things.” She moved off of the steps and went to the end of the hall, simply pushing the door open and didn’t care to wait for him. He debated for a moment on just leaving, though now that he knew he was practically missing a limb without his wand, he knew he couldn’t get far. 

Reluctantly, he ascended the remaining stairs, past two other closed doors, and into what seemed to be a small flat. A queen size bed was pushed up against two walls with a nightstand, a dark wood dresser nearest him, and the corner in his eyeline had two large windows each with a wide sill full of blankets and pillows. The glass was frosted and full of iron lines in intricate patterns. Underneath that was a trunk, a few books, and dozens of folded parchments. If he strained, he could still hear the band outside. Or maybe it was another one just sprung up around the building. 

The place clearly hadn’t been abandoned long, hell, it still smelled like her. The bed slightly mussed and some clothes left in the hamper. He watched Macaria walk to the other side of the room, down another short hallway to what seemed to be a bathroom. She manually flipped on a lightswitch, but didn’t close the door. 

Draco approached to see her removing the glamour charms and returning her clothes back to what they were. 

“Following me into a bathroom again?” She said without glancing at him, he leaned against the doorframe and looked into the emerald green tiled room. Almost admiring the antique mirror outlined in gold, reflecting back someone he almost didn’t recognize. His hair was a shade lighter than ebony, his eyes hazel. His pale skin stood out far more in the contrast, looking like a ghost - especially in that area. Macaria turned her wand on him, reversing all the work she had done. His focus was still on the mirror and he almost didn’t notice when she ripped his sleeve up his left arm.

“What the fuck?” She exhaled, her fingers hovering above the mottled Dark Mark. Since Voldemort’s death it had been slowly bubbling up like an acid burn, stinging almost constantly and growing steadily worse in the last year. It had yet to spread from the confines of the ink, though the black lines seemed to be sinking further into his skin. 

Draco tried to pull the sleeve back down but her hand flew up to stop it.

“Just leave it alone,” he snipped, finally able to cover it again as she dropped her hold and looked away. 

“We’ll have to use glamour charms when we go out. You’re too recognizable, even here,” she pushed beyond him to the main room. 

“Is this your flat?” 

“Sometimes,” Macaria opened one of the windows and the jazz got louder, a low breeze rolling in and lifting some dust. “We’ll have to get you a new wand. I’ll ask Athalie where the shop is. Most things are hidden in plain sight here.”

“Isn’t that quite a risk?” He looked at her, incredulous. For Merlin’s sake there was only a curtain separating the two stores!

“Not here.” 

A spotted barn owl swooped in, dropping a few papers at the sill, and immediately flying back out. Macaria sifted through a few different newspapers from the magical world, dropping The Ghost and The Quibbler on the bed and reading the front page of The Prophet. She sat on the bed and Draco joined her, having no idea what else he could do.

**_DRACO MALFOY MISSING AFTER RECENT ATTACKS_ **

**_BY: RITA SKEETER_ **

**_The young Malfoy heir was enjoying a lovely gala to celebrate the works of the healers at St. Mungo’s for long-term war recovery, when he was atrociously attacked, barely escaping with his life. Lucky enough for him, the Minister of Magic - Kingsley Shacklebolt - was there just in time to apprehend the aggressor and question him for information. The group now claiming credit for chasing down ex-Death Eaters has yet to name themselves, only referring to a mission to “clear the rot” from wizarding Britain._ **

**_According to close sources, Draco Malfoy was so fearful of his life after the attack, he sought out a ministry safe house. There, he was followed and the house destroyed. Leaving only his wand and spatters of spilt pure-blood behind._ **

**_The ministry is hopeful in his safe return or the Malfoy fortune would be in jeopardy..._ **

“Fucking hell, Skeeter.” Draco scoffed, batting his hand against the grainy moving picture of himself and his mother in the Ministry after his release. Macaria sighed and flipped through the rest of the paper, scanning over headlines. 

“At least she didn’t mention your hair this time,” she muttered, finishing with the search and setting the paper aside. 

“She’s got quite a fascination,” he realized then how physically close they were, thigh against thigh and his arm behind her as he put his weight back into the bed. She turned her head, evaluating his pale complexion as he familiarized himself with her presence again. Draco reached his free hand out, pushing some fallen hair behind her ear. He said under his breath, “What are we doing here?”

“This is where we are safe,” she shrugged, looking away from him or leaning into his touch - he didn’t know. “Magic is different here. I’m not sure how to explain it, but I researched it...I don’t know. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on anyway, I’m just being lead around at this point,” he dropped his hand. “Gods must really have a sense of humor if it's with you.”

“Oh, save it. Let’s get you a new wand.”

-

Draco felt the weight of the new implement in his hand, the wood made of Swamp Mayhaw and Rougarou hair core. He felt like tendrils of dark magic were leaching into his skin from the handle and he set it back into the box.

Violetta Beauvais, the wand-maker glowered at him over crescent glasses, reaching under the counter for another box without breaking eye-contact. It was the same making, but a different length and handle.

“Have you got any other types?” Macaria asked, appearing to grow equally frustrated with the elderly witch. “I don’t think the affinity of it suits him as much as you think it might.”

Draco refused to blink first. Beauvais eventually let out a slow breath through her nose.

“Show me yours,” she turned to Macaria with a hand out. Macaria looked befuddled for a moment, but blinked it away and handed over her wand. “Ah, yes. Ebony wood, eleven inches...Thunderbird tail feather? Interesting.”

Draco arched a now deep brown eyebrow. He’d always thought the handle was strange, mostly smooth with just the end made up of several darkened grip ridges. 

His Hawthorne was simple. Elegant. Though it hadn’t quite been the same since the Battle, its magic faltered more often than not. 

Beauvais disappeared behind some shelves at the back of the shop, still with Macaria’s wand in her hand. Draco set his eyes on her, feeling some of the apprehension she expressed.

“I’ve got one thing,” the wand-maker called from much further away then. “Otherwise…” she said as she came back into view, a worn looking box in her hands, Macaria’s wand on top. “You may want to look further north.” She opened the box and the handle design immediately caught Draco’s eye. It had four raised rings on either end with long raised grips that curved down in the center, looking to be about a perfect fit for his hand. “What do you think?”

“What’s it made of?” He was hesitant to touch it, not particularly inclined to feel any more dark magic within him. 

“Willow and Phoenix feather, fourteen inches. Try it,” she pushed the box toward him with a boney finger. He glanced over to Macaria who had another unreadable expression and then finally reached out for it. The honey-colored wand with its silver and copper plated handle warmed to his hand, feeling as though it was binding itself to his magical core from a single touch. “Finicky, those ones.” 

“Why’s that?” Draco asked, despite knowing most of the answer. 

“Well, Willow seeks out potential. It’s good for healing and especially those adept at non-verbal magic. Phoenix is hard to win over, it’s powerful and widely ranging. It’s best for those who are extremely detached and independent.”

“Why did you need my wand?” Macaria seemed to ignore Draco’s levitating of the box, non-verbally, and his near awe-stricken face at the feeling of it. 

“Yours, young Lightlauder,” Beauvais sighed, picking it up again. “It does not easily trust. It is combative and assertive, made for the stubborn outsider. I had some wands shipped in from around the world and I believed it best to have yours find the one that it would lend some credence.”

Macaria’s brow furrowed as she took hers back, stowing it into a pocket. 

“This one.” Draco stopped his testing of it. Macaria dug through her purse and paid as he fit the new wand comfortably into his jacket. They turned away from the counter, Beauvais’ watchful eyes never leaving them.

Macaria stepped out first, Draco’s arm above her head to hold the door open. 

“Young man?” Beauvais said and he moved to arch a brow at her. “Willow...it reeks of insecurity.” 

His mouth pressed to a thin line as he turned around and left. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess we are sticking with thursdays because I don't feel like waiting any longer lol

Draco was dreaming.

He was sure of it. Wandering an unfamiliar cemetery with the ground dredging up fresh moisture at every step. The smell of moss and soil was almost overwhelming in the humidity as he passed by mausoleum after mausoleum. Many covered with ivy or so eroded he couldn’t make out the names. 

His steps halted as his mother appeared in front of him, tears spilling down the ghostly planes of her face. She looked exactly as she did the day of the Battle, distressed, but accepting. 

“Mother?” His voice sounded weak, as if he hadn’t spoken aloud in months. 

“You have to go, Draco,” she said without a hint of emotion in her voice. Cold. “You have to run.”

“I promised I would stay with you, no matter what,” Draco shook his head, nearing her. He took her hands in his own, but he couldn’t feel them. 

“Staying, my love, is only giving the upper hand. Death has offered you a shadow, it wouldn’t do well to run into the light.”

Her pleading expression burned into the back of his eyelids as he startled awake, panic marring his barely-conscious brain as he didn’t recognize the ceiling. He lifted himself to his elbows, observing the sculpted fleur de lis above him and the gentle moonlight streaming into the quiet room. Macaria was asleep to his left, dark hair splayed across the cream pillowcase, a soft rhythm to her breathing. 

They had bickered over the sleeping arrangement once they’d gotten back from getting a wand, the many hours catching up with them in the early evening of the city. Eventually, they just decided to share the bed, though he had to  _ keep to his side _ . 

He felt like it was closer to six a.m. and his mind didn’t seem to want to settle. He considered writing to his mother. Tell her that he’s alive. 

The thought riddled him with guilt, that he’d been so swept up in the attempts on his life and being swept away to a new city that he hadn’t thought to check in on her. 

He wondered if Blaise ever had.

There wasn’t an owlery that he’d heard of or come across yet, so he stored the thought away and relaxed for a moment. 

Sweat stuck his t-shirt to him - an old one he’d forgotten about until Macaria drew it out of one of the drawers, throwing it at his face without a word before they’d gone to sleep. He ripped it off and settled back under the duvet.

Draco’s heart began racing as he stared at her sleeping frame, the bare shoulder with a few freckles dispersed. He thought it funny that they resembled a constellation. 

He let his fingers trace over the visible curves in her skin, some feather of shame coiling in his gut as she awoke at the touch, looking fearfully into his eyes. He felt himself at a loss for words until the emotion faded from her. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she relaxed and turned to face him, moving to the center of the bed, tucking her head under his chin like it was made to be there. 

  
  


_ Then _

Macaria Lightlauder didn’t like Hogwarts much. It was far too cold in the dungeons and the library always had its regulars in the better seats. She felt lucky that all the commotion of having two other schools invading had made her transfer less of an ordeal. 

She liked the alcoves of the quiet hallways. Ilvermorny had a few professors willing to work privately on more questionable subjects, provided she excelled well enough in her mandated ones. When she was alone, she could practice her non-verbal, wandless, and transfiguration. She didn’t dare attempt the combat, even though her wand seemed to have a mind of its own and would fire off a hex occasionally. It didn’t bode well when she would come across some couple making use of the deserted path and a stinging jinx hit the stone near them. 

She wasn’t sure about the house she was sorted into. She missed her friends from Wampus fiercely, their earnest and friendly nature a far cry from those in Slytherin. From what she could surmise, they were all cold and cruel - especially to an outsider. 

Sometimes she thought about faking an accent, but then they might just sneer at her more. 

Other fourth years from different houses seemed nice enough. The few that had genuinely shown an interest were three Gryffindors that appeared to be fairly popular. The one named Harry especially liked that she didn’t know him from anywhere. Macaria thought that to be a little strange. 

The blond boy that had found her practicing levitation was known to them simply as “Malfoy”. At first, Macaria had thought they said “mouth boy” and two lanky, ginger boys with identical goofy grins found that hilarious. 

Macaria blushed at the attention.

_ Now _

  
  


She was gone when he woke up again in the late morning. 

He heard the dull rain of a shower on the other side of the wall, idly wondering how far he could push his luck in that regard. He laid back against the bed, studying the same designs as he did during the night. He’d fallen asleep with that earthy scent so close to him. 

He felt like he could finally breathe.

The shower went silent, the noise of the bathroom subdued until the door opened with a creak. Macaria appeared in a flowy black dress, skirt just below the knee, and the shoulders floral, lacey. 

“Who’s funeral?” He quipped, laying on his side, watching with bemused interest at her rolling her hair up off her neck.

“There are more clothes that'll fit you in the drawer,” she didn’t appear to be particularly mad at him, perhaps just exhausted. “I’m not sure if they’ll fit a weasel, though.”

Draco threw a worthless glare at her back while she added a few things into a purse. 

“I’m going to get us breakfast. Dress smartly, you have someone to charm today,” Macaria finally looked at him. “Do your own glamours and please don’t do anything stupid.”

He scoffed, “That’s hardly my reputation.”

“Oh, no. You’re far more squirrely,” she said as she walked through the door.

“It was a FERRET!” 

Draco could’ve sworn he heard her laugh.

-

Warm, muddied earth pooled around Draco’s heels as they stood at the edge of a swamp. The stench of decay and boggy water wafted around them in the early afternoon air, nearly making his eyes water as he stared into the path ahead - lined with stakes emitting flame from oiled canvas. 

A house, if one could call it that, sat at the end. Boards were lain haphazardly for the roof, appearing to be soaked through from the daily bouts of thunderstorms. The trees surrounding it had numerous ornaments, many different arrangements of sticks and bones, different poultices smothered against trunks. 

Even Macaria looked intimidated. She was usually quite poised - unapproachable, but elegant all the same. Draco wondered what lay in the house for her to have lost that.

“We shouldn’t keep her waiting,” Macaria started to walk ahead. 

“If this is how you’ll kill me,” he started, appreciating her eye roll. “Points for scare tactics.”

“I assure you my methods are far less underhanded,” she stumbled in the mud, grasping his arm as he steadied her. 

Draco smirked, attempting to cover his unease at the strange place they’d apparated to. All she’d given him was that the woman they were going to see might have some answers and provide some safety measures. Personally, he felt far too out of his element, even with the new wand at his side. 

“Now, I don’t believe that,” he kept his hand at her lower back as they neared the end of the path. “I think you’re perfectly capable of something unpredictable.”

“High praise from the head snake himself,” Macaria muttered, stopping in front of the door. It hung at an angle with an eye-slot at the top, suddenly flicking to the side to reveal two dark eyes that evaluated them for a moment. 

“Ki biznis ou genyen?” A low voice from the other side said sharply.

“Nou vin wè Rèn nan,” Macaria responded carefully, her usual mask back in place. “Nou prè pou nou peye.”

The slat slammed closed and Draco began to think she had said the wrong thing, until the door swung open to reveal a man in traditional Haitian robes. Draco got an eerie feeling in his gut.

“What language was that?” He whispered to her as they entered, the house as dilapidated inside as it was outside. 

“Creole.”

“And you know that language?” His eyebrows rose.

“I picked it up. It was a long year,” she kept going into a dank area that lit up at their entrance. It only had three walls, where the fourth would have been torn out to spread into what appeared to be an altar room. Draco reached for his wand but Macaria stopped him, a warning look playing at her eyes as if to say  _ let me do the talking. _

A woman he hadn’t noticed before stood from a chair at the end of the room raised several steps above them, long braids cascading down her back. Her dark skin glowed under the firelight, soft lines within her face revealed some age. A stern look and proud stance radiated an ancient sort of prowess.

“Come back to me, huh? Introduce me to your friend,” the woman’s heavily French-accented voice was intense and demanding.

“Draco Malfoy, this is Queen Modeste, crowned ruler of voodoo,” Macaria said evenly, uncompromising. He wished he had his wand in his hand.

“I am afraid I cannot offer much for your request,” Modeste shook her head.“I don’t associate with those who would commit to such a cause.”

“My request is a bit different this time,” Macaria stood tall as the woman sized her up. 

“Do tell,” she clipped, approaching Draco, who was doing his best to hold back a sneer. 

“We need to hide our magical signatures, temporarily.”

“That kind of magic does not like ‘temporary’,” Modeste returned to her seat, adjusting the patterned robes, and looking down her long nose. “It is ancient, blood magic. I know two as youthful as you would not be familiar with the kind of power involved in such an ordeal.”

“I know it can be done,” Macaria was firm, the elder woman simply arching a brow. 

“Voodoo is not something to be messed with,” her intense gaze shifted to Draco. “I do not want to see it tarnished.”

He felt his blood begin to boil, mixed with the upwelling of shame, a swift retort ready to leave his lips.

“I can prove that he is not what you believe.”

The Queen simply beckoned with a wave of her hand and Macaria kneeled at her feet. Draco’s hands turned to rigid fists at his sides, nails drawing blood in his palms.

“Look into my eyes, child,” Modeste took hold of Macaria’s jaw, angling it up as she leaned down. After a moment, a small sound erupted from Macaria’s throat, alluding to the pain within legilimency. Draco knew being gentle was a choice after his sessions with Snape and Aunt Bella, and it didn’t appear that the woman had a kind bone in her body.

She finished after several long minutes, Macaria dropping to her elbows once freed. Draco kept his place, though he looked over her carefully. Sweat gathered at her temples, but he knew he was about the same in the heavy heat. Modeste snickered, a foreign sound of someone so serious.

“This one has just shown your cowardice, your refusal to act until the last moment.” She leaned back into the throne. “I am not sure it is enough to sway.”

“Draco has saved lives when it counted,” Macaria sat back on her ankles, having regained her strength.

“And how many died when it didn’t?” Modeste didn’t allow for an answer. “Did you allow him into your quarters because you were impartial to his prejudice? Or did you truly believe that he could be different?”

“I am a half-blood. It was never real to him,” Macaria returned to her feet, a couple meters away from the Queen. Draco was left speechless as she glanced at him, a swell of something old coiling in his gut. 

“Actions weigh far more in character, for me. If you want to hide your magical signature, I’ll do it. Tonight, if you wish, but…” the Queen turned her finger to Draco. “I’ll have to evaluate him.”

“How…?” Macaria started only to cut herself off with a piercing scream. The veins on her neck stood out as she fell to her knees, all muscles tensed in pain. His mind suddenly awash with a familiar sound back at the Manor. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Draco drew his wand and cast a  _ Protego _ to no avail. He had never heard of a non-verbal  _ Crucio _ . Or a wandless one for that matter. He could only watch as she suffered. 

Modeste seemed unbothered, holding the spell. Draco decided he was tired of the formalities and cast a hex her way, though his wand was fighting him. It jerked in his hand, forcing the spell to weaken and miss. 

The agony had become great enough to render Macaria silent, falling to the side, her head hitting the hard ground before he could react. Her body went eerily still, her once tense face now slack and pale. 

Draco felt his heart skip a beat and his mind went blank, a force piercing its way through the fog. His lungs pressured out a wheeze as black spots began to fill his vision. He fell to his knees next to her inert frame.

“Very well,” Modeste waved her hand and Macaria sucked in a deep breath, her green eyes landing on Draco with a thousand questions inlaid. Blood trickling down the side of her face from her temple. 

Modeste left her throne, stepping over Macaria’s wayward legs, and disappeared into the hallway at the other end of the room. The sounds of the swamp penetrated the otherwise silent room, filling the absence of tortured screams.

“Are you okay?” He asked earnestly, his fingers brushing back loose hair. Concern furrowed golden brows as she nodded, moving to get up and brush the dirt from her dress. His wand warmed in his hand and he wordlessly healed the small gash, blood rushing through her skin again. He looked at her for a moment as she seemed to retreat into her mind, though not shying away from his touch. 

“I think I died.” She stated calmly. “Or something like it. I don’t know.” Her breathing began to turn to sharp gasps and she reached for him, burying her face in his chest as he tried to calm his own racing heart. “It wasn’t the Cruciatus, it was worse. It was like every nightmare I’ve ever had and then some.”

“Do we need to do this?” Draco tilted her chin up. “We could stay on the move. It’d be hard, but it’s an option.”

She was already shaking her head, “This was always the plan. Once this is done, I’ll show you this world. I’ll show you why I chose this city.”

He looked at her for a long moment, almost debating just leaving then and there. 

“Okay,” he touched his forehead to hers. “I trust you.”

-

Queen Modeste spoke a mix of Latin and Creole, sprinkling their individual blood on a great black stone in the ground, over a series of runes and other symbols Draco couldn’t begin to recognize. The tip of his finger stung, red still bubbled up as he let the ancient magic wash over him, into his very core. 

The thought of a group of people, hard set on seeing him die, was enough to push him into relying on old faith. A pang of reproach in his gut. 

Modeste finished her recitation of the spell, pushing their hands to join on the stone, warm beneath their palms. The symbols glowed amber, heating up to almost searing - then cooled at once. 

“You are bound to the Earth. It’s own magic has concealed yours, for now. I may be inspired to reverse it, provided enough of an incentive,” Modeste looked down her nose, releasing their now healed hands. “Give me your arm.”

Draco looked to Macaria, who nodded slightly, before rolling up the sleeve of his left arm. The skin was further marred and red with irritation. Modeste reached for a bowl near the altar, spreading a sap-like substance over the skin that immediately began to burn. It bubbled over, steaming around all the lines of the Mark until it slid off of his skin. His arm was bare. 

“It is not permanent and it is not gone,” she released the limb, narrowing her dark eyes at Draco - who merely felt some semblance of elation at the unblemished skin. Modeste turned to Macaria. “Your pain is your price, this time. Out.”

Macaria nodded, swiftly taking Draco’s hand and leaving the house as he attempted to catch his breath. They practically ran down the fire-lit path, fingers interlocked as she turned to him, color flushing her cheeks. 

“How about a drink?”

He nodded.

  
  


-

  
  


“What is the extent of hiding our magical signatures?”

Draco and Macaria sat at an outside table at a muggle bar in the French Quarter, the overall lively nature of Bourbon Street ensured that their conversation wouldn’t be picked up above any other noise. They had cleaned up their clothes and overall appearance with a few charms, and if Draco were entertaining the idea, it might’ve felt like a date. 

“An easy way to be found is by tracking apparition, portkeys, mail, or the like. Aurors use it - I’m sure you know - and I have no doubt that the people after you would figure out how to do the same,” she shrugged and sipped at a fruity drink the bar advertised. She had slipped him a fake muggle I.D. under the table as the waitress asked for it, ignoring the quirk in his brows as he accepted it. 

“You really did think of everything,” he shook his head. “I never would have been able to.”

“I know,” a sad smile to her lips. She turned to watch a wedding procession turn around the corner, the band playing a sixties melody as the bride and groom danced in the street. His mind began to wonder the depths of being hidden, how he could reach out to his mother or Blaise or Theo. 

“You said you’d show me why you chose New Orleans,” a teasing lilt to his voice, hoping to erase the somber mood. Macaria took the bait and downed the rest of her drink, dropping some American money on the table before offering her hand. Draco took it without hesitation. “You ought to let me pay for something.”

“Oh yeah, access the vault, why don’t you?” She smirked and he rolled his eyes. 

She led them out to where the wedding party was, couples from the sidewalks joining in on the dancing and singing. The air was warm, but not sweltering as he was finding it to commonly be. A real smile spread across her features as he pulled at her arm, twirling her into him and settling his other hand at her waist. He idly wondered if she’d keep her rule on the bed tonight, or if she was feeling as swept up in old feelings as he was. 

He allowed himself to feel the mirth of the moment, appreciating the street lights of late evening reflect in her attentive green eyes. The comfort her presence had always brought, the safety in her words. Her arms slung around his shoulders as her mouth neared the sensitive skin of his ear, soft words sending goosebumps across his neck. 

Draco wondered how far he could push his luck. 

“Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and call to your central core of magic,” she whispered, and he did his best to ignore how his pulse picked up. He let his hands settle low on her back, following her commands. Magic crackling at his fingertips. “Feel how it’s different here, how your whole being is different here. Open your eyes and look up. “

Above them were flying creatures the size of a fist, wings glowing a champagne shade of gold and bodies like pixies, but softer - kinder. They swirled and danced above the newlyweds, a small rain of something like glitter falling onto them.

Draco let out a huff of laughter, “It’s like the whole bloody city is under a notice-me-not charm.” 

“It’s a blessing for the couple. Look over your shoulder.”

They continued their slow dance and he glanced towards the building, alive with partygoers on every balcony. Above two of the tourist-stop stores, new designations appeared. A bank branch and an owlery. He filed the thought away and looked at the other side of the street, a few more wizarding shops making themselves known.

“Plain sight,” she snickered.

Draco turned back to her, only inches between them. His silver eyes dropped to her bemused expression. 

“When did you think of this?” 

“Sixth year. My parents and I took a trip-” Macaria’s eyes went wide as he pressed his mouth firmly to hers. 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

  
  


_ Then _

Fred Weasley was a stranger to any abashed feeling - or so Macaria was beginning to figure out. Once he realized he’d caught the transfer’s attention, he didn’t hesitate to sneak her into the Gryffindor common room, or make many attempts with his brother, George, to get into Slytherin’s. 

His eyes were bright and his mouth not far from a grin at any given time. He was a blasted idiot and the most cunning person Macaria had ever met. 

When he asked her to the Yule Ball, she didn’t hesitate either. 

Macaria didn’t see much of anyone else that night. He was keen on keeping her attention on him, whispering mockeries of the Durmstrang men as they spun by, a running commentary on the awkward dances between professors. 

She couldn’t remember laughing more in her life. 

Fred lifted her up to step on the toes of his sturdy boots during a slow dance so she wouldn’t have to worry about fumbling through it. Unfortunately, even the waltz lessons hadn’t quite sunk in. He didn’t seem to mind. 

When he bid her goodnight, he kissed her on the cheek, giving an obnoxious bow before heading to his tower. 

Later, he asked her to spend a few days at his family’s home over the break - leaving with a hand-knit sweater from his mother. Fred told her his mom adored her.

He kissed her on Christmas Eve.

  
  


_ Now _

  
  


For a moment, he was back at school, in that horrible time where he was accepting his impending fate - should he not have the gall to kill his headmaster. In that time where everything was cold and unfeeling, where he was cruel and distant. 

Draco had one thing, one consistency, and he used it.

He felt the warmth in her skin against his constantly frozen features, black against white, and the slow clap of thunder as his hands captured her face. In the second that she gave in to him, pressing back and losing herself all the same, he felt that old spark of what he had when he needed it most.

“What the fuck, Draco?” Macaria pulled out of his grasp, green eyes hard on his. Her expression so open and... _ hurt _ ?

“I thought-”

“No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make that choice,” she turned away from him and started walking beyond the crowded wedding, toward the several block route to the flat. Even though he felt as if his bones were made of lead, he began to follow.

“Macaria, come on,” he sounded pleading and pathetic to his own ears. 

“This was to make sure you don’t die at the hand of whoever the hell is out to get you now. It’s not the same,” one hand reaching to tangle in her waves as they retreated from the roar of Bourbon Street. Macaria turned to him, his face growing paler in the night. “You have never known what you wanted from me.”

“That’s not fair,” he reached for her, but thought better of it, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I was all in. When you had me, you had all of me, but you gave me bits and pieces.” Macaria’s voice was deadly derisive. “I did everything I could because I always knew something like this would happen if you did the right thing, but you threw it in my face.”

“You can’t just make it that simple. You know there was more than that, than just us to consider,” he spat the words, nails digging into his arms. 

“Believe me. I know.”

There was a tense moment, Draco seeing the years of contempt and anguish reflect between the two of them. He felt a familiar sneer make its way up his face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When you showed up out of nowhere, insistent being involved in this mess,” he stepped into her space, enjoying how he towered over her. “I thought something had changed. You didn’t even spring for a second  _ bed _ for Merlin’s sake.”

“Just because I saved your ass doesn’t mean you have any right to what we had. And it doesn’t mean I forgive you. For any of it.” Her stare was cold and unwavering, turning on her heel and striding on the route back. 

-

Draco wandered the lively streets for a few hours, venturing into the Garden District where many houses were topped over by massive trees growing through the middle of them. He hated that he felt at peace here, that his core magic sung in his veins with each passing day. 

He hated that Macaria was right. 

Even as the dense and inky thunderclouds loomed above, electricity hanging in the air, magic was around him - fulfilling its role in the everyday world. Shield charms hung above the most vulnerable, the muggles perfectly unaware of the Earth’s natural protection - and even the wizards who were too stubborn to see it. 

The first raindrops began to splatter at his feet and he decided it had been long enough. 

The trek back was aptly miserable in the downpour and he almost began to feel badly for what he said. He chased away those thoughts with other cruel things he could say - about how he hadn’t wanted any of this, how he could do just fine on his own. He wasn’t just some charity case that she could come in and save whenever she damn well pleased. 

He thought about trying for a portkey back to Britain, though he knew he’d get recognized in any government office. He’d have to find one on the black market and that was dangerous for a multitude of reasons. 

He was stuck, whether he liked it or not. 

Draco made it back to the shop, doing his best to ignore the glare Athalie shot his way at his entry. The flat was dark and quiet as he passed through the wards, Macaria at least appearing to be asleep, still and facing away from him on the bed. He pulled off the soaked oxford as he made his way to the bathroom, hanging that and his trousers over the high wall of the shower to dry. 

The storm outside was beginning to pass, a soft pattering of rain hit the intricate glass, as he sat in one of the window seats. The newspapers were still in their disarray from the owl dropping them off, The Prophet on top, loudly proclaiming how the ministry had few leads on the situation. Draco flipped through it, a few headlines catching his eye. 

**_DRAGON TAMING: ARCHAIC OR ECONOMIC?_ **

**_BY: M. LIGHTLAUDER_ **

**_IS THERE HOPE FOR THE HARPIES?_ **

**_BY: M. LIGHTLAUDER_ **

**_SAFE IN NUMBERS, CENTAUR HERDS MOVE NORTH_ **

**_BY: M. LIGHTLAUDER_ **

“I didn’t know you wrote.” Draco didn’t look up from the articles, seeing her shift up in bed in his peripheral. 

“I have for a while,” she said quietly, the fervor from before absent. 

“It’s not exactly consistent in category, is it?”

“They send me topics, I cover them. Gotta pay for things somehow,” she shrugged. 

“Aren’t you curious where I was?”

“Not particularly, no,” Macaria laid on her side again, facing outwards. 

“I could have ruined this entire plan of yours, outed us to the magical community, and that doesn’t bother you?” He folded the paper in half, content to move onto the next one. 

“You are many things, Draco, but stupid is not one of them.”

“That’s not what you said this morning,” he quipped.

“You make every day feel painfully long, I hope you know that,” she sighed in a way that even Draco would consider dramatic as he tried to rebuff the insult.

“It wasn’t  _ my _ choice to put us six hours behind,” he wasn’t even reading the words on the Ghost’s front page, just staring angrily at the moving photo of a crowd.

“I’ll consider a later time difference next time,” Macaria deadpanned. He scoffed, finally letting the headline sink in. “I think we should figure out who is after you. Make a list of people that had it out for you before the Battle and those after. Just get an edge on them in case they do manage to find us here.”

“That’ll be difficult.”

“Why? Plenty of people don’t like you.”

“‘Anti Death Eater Movement Rises in M.A.C.U.S.A.’ You could say that number has risen.”

She sat up again, getting out of the bed and crossing the room to where he sat. He wanted to summon some anger from their argument earlier, but the newfound dread masked any attempt. She took the paper from him, looking over the paragraphs describing the protestors in their government atrium. 

“‘More and more ‘reformed’ Death Eaters have vanished from their European estates, seeking safer ground as the unrest grows within the British Ministry of Magic. Most notably, Draco Malfoy who is assumed missing after an explosive attack and two attempts on his life since his recent release from Azkaban. His and his mother’s acquittal has stirred up controversy internationally, questioning whether their motives can excuse their actions in the Second Wizarding War…’” Macaria read, face going blank as she finished. “Oh, god.”

“We’re not as safe here as you thought then?” He shook his head, taking the paper back from her limp hands. 

“This is far north. We’re fine for now, but I’ll need to talk to some people tomorrow.” She stepped away. “I’m going to bed.”

“Clearly.”

“When you’re done being a prat, you should too.”

“I’m never a prat,” he huffed, setting aside the papers and making his way to his side of the bed. He wasn’t sure if sleep would find him that night, despite being physically exhausted. 

The pang of worry for his mother and friends was steadily growing. 

-

After Draco woke up alone and more exhausted than when he’d finally slept, he decided to venture into the shop downstairs to the sight of Athalie and Macaria quietly conversing in the muggle half as a few patrons wandered the shelves. 

Macaria gave an impassive look as he neared, leaning against the counter separating them.

“Athalie may have a lead on our situation,” Macaria said.

“It might be nothing,”Athalie’s accented voice small.

“Just go over it again,” she implored, looking over her shoulder for any muggles looming closer. 

“Alright, well, the potion-master I buy from, mentioned an influx of orders, and that he would need to buy rare ingredients from me for them,” her voice lowered to a whisper. 

“So...what?” Draco didn’t think more black market trade would mean anything for them, ignoring the flicker of irritation in Macaria’s eyes.

“So, spikes in orders like that means something is coming. A group is preparing for… I don’t know what. I know where you can find him, though.”

“Where?”

“What makes you think he’ll say anything to us about the trade?” Draco scoffed. 

“He is a businessman, make him an offer. He doesn’t see people twice if he gets spooked, either.”

“What the hell do we have to offer?” Frustration surged through his core as his hands clenched into fists. 

“I don’t know, but you can figure it out by tonight. He goes to a time capsule bar almost every day,” Athalie looked nonplussed at Draco. “It’s called the Glass Garden. On the corner of Saint Ann and Royal, there’s a hidden door in the black brick of the alleyway. There isn’t a password, but they do have a trivia question you need to get right.”

“What’s the trivia on?”

Athalie shrugged, “World War Two.”

“Have you been there before?” Draco narrowed his eyes. 

“Many times. I have other business to attend to tonight, otherwise I’d join you,” she matched Draco’s stare. 

“What if it’s just a waste of time?”

“All these questions,” Macaria rolled her eyes. “Then so what, we gain a contact and an evening out. You could do worse.”

He sighed, “is there a dress code?”

“Like I said, it’s a time capsule. It’s nothing a no-maj could comprehend.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! doing a double update this week because I am also impatient
> 
> Also there is a playlist for this fic, if the link doesn't work it's called "a young witch in new orleans" by plathian on spotify
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6ZIOiRnEyQEdhKS3PuNE7v

_ Then _

Draco became insatiable.

Holding a higher rank on the Inquisitor Squad was one thing - it meant he could relentlessly tear down the gloating Gryffindors whenever he wanted - and he could get away with significantly more, if he so desired. 

He’d made a bet with Theo and Blaise that he could get more of the Slytherin girls of Fifth year in a compromising position than they could by the winter break. Blaise had already one-upped him within a few weeks and he was determined to win. Draco had made out with the elder Greengrass sister the previous night, thinking about dragging her into a broom closet during his evening rounds, but decided against it lest she become clingy. 

The two dolts he used to fraternize with had become sidetracked when they found two sixth years attempting to break into Umbridge’s office. Crabbe and Goyle chased them off about points and detention, deciding then to harass the elves for food in the late hour. Draco continued on down the drafty corridors, ignoring the unease in his gut as the shadows stretched longer and the chill became colder. 

It wasn’t within his route, but he was exhausted of the same stone walls around him, and he ventured to the many steps of the Astronomy tower. He did his best to step quietly up to the first platform, not caring for any attention should he find himself not to be alone, the quiet lasting long enough for him to let out a low sigh. 

He was tired. 

His eyelids sank a little in the sudden warmth, the shiver making its way up his spine, retreating. 

His eyes snapped open. How could he be warm?

Draco looked above him, finally seeing two distinct shapes above him, moving slowly across the platform. His features scrunched in confusion, ears picking up on a low humming of a muggle tune. It certainly wasn’t anything he was familiar with. 

He moved back towards the spiral staircase, silencing his footsteps for good measure as he slowly ascended. His white-blond head peeked out above the floor, letting his eyes adjust to the soft flicker of candles illuminating the couple slowly swaying at the far end. 

The boy was tall and angular, resting his chin against the girl’s temple with a contented smile on his face. His hands rested at the small of her back, picking his feet up with ease despite her toes on top of his own. 

It took Draco all too long to recognise him as one of the Weasels. Only cementing it further once they had turned enough to see the transfer girl’s face resting against his chest, a warm expression softening her features. 

“I love you, Fred,” she said quietly, not even looking up at him. Like it was so known and true that she didn’t need to. 

He seemed to whisper an assurance, too low for Draco to pick up on, and kissed her temple. 

Draco felt a surge of...something wash over him, painting his pale features in a sharp blush at witnessing such a private moment. He slowly stepped back down, sparing one last glance at the pair.

He knew he should have run storming up the stairs, brandishing his wand, and stripping them of house points. It was his duty after all to ensure students were abiding by the rules, new and old - and especially those who surround Potter. 

The emotion coiling in his gut won out over anything else, though. Jealousy was making itself known and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  
  


_ Now _

  
  


Draco stared at the black brick wall, exactly as Athalie had described it, and itched subconsciously at his left arm. 

Macaria drew a breath and fidgeted with her wand for a moment, glancing down the alleyway, splashed with scarlet in the evening sun. 

He thought about their first evening there, only days before and feeling like an eternity. He knew she didn’t like to waste time and definitely had more rivulets to her grand plan that he didn’t even want to begin to think about. 

He was also beginning to grow used to the constant glamours, that night he decided on sandy-blond hair and then she had softened his features and darkened his eyes, making him just that much less recognizable. 

Macaria tapped her wand at his eye level, two bricks disappearing and replaced by equally shadowed eyes. His heart pounded at the uncanny reminder of the house in the swamp.

“What was the codename for the Battle of Normandy?” A hushed sound behind the layers of caulk and stone, eyes flitting between the pair. 

“Operation overlord,” Draco met Macaria’s surprised glance with a shrug, murmuring, “muggle studies.”

“That wasn’t a part of the curriculum,” she muttered as the bricks fell away to a completely shaded opening, the person behind the wall having disappeared. She stepped ahead of him and gasped, Draco stumbling in a moment after and running into her. His hands went to her shoulders to stabilize himself, pulling away in shock at the sight of somebody new within his grasp.

Though it wasn’t someone new as she turned around, the strawberry-blonde pinned up in victory rolls and her lips an entrancing shade of red. The muggle clothes were replaced by a navy blue dress, covered in small white dots and cut to a V in the center of her chest, skin overlain in an entwined string of pearls. 

She looked  _ glamorous _ and he was acutely aware that his jaw was hanging open. 

“Oh,” she said under her breath, looking up and down at him. A fresh, but vintage-looking suit shaped around him, the color a hair away from midnight, and filling out where he was still lanky. He glanced to the mirrored walls of the entryway, his hair set in waves with an intense looking gel, reminiscent of his younger days.

“Well, this is interesting,” his throat tickled with a strange, bubbly sensation. He finally noticed the man in front of them, appearing to be used to the self-admiration and waiting for their attention. 

“Welcome to the Glass Garden. Your clothes and all will be returned to its usual state the moment you step out. The rules of this speakeasy are simple: the year is 1944, Nazi-bashing is encouraged, but if you get too rowdy we won’t hesitate to throw you out the old-fashioned way. We do ask that any and all magic is kept to an absolute minimum,” the man huffed in a breath, his accent an odd mix of British and Eastern American. “And finally, any backdoor business deals are not sponsored by the establishment.” He pushed open the door and waited for them to step beyond the threshold until closing it again. 

Draco let the new atmosphere wash over him in a great wave, noticing first the trio of singing women against a jazz band in the far end, the dance floor brimming with couples swaying in varying energy. If he didn’t know better, he’d have believed it really was 1944. 

Macaria looked as taken-aback, glowing under the small haze in the room, as if the air was deciding whether noir or full-color would be ideal. He noticed then that she was several inches taller, her forehead at his nose, and looked down to see a pair of strappy, white heels. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered in a lilt unlike her own. Her eyes widened as she looked at him, a hand flying to her throat, a laugh escaping her lips. “The transatlantic accent. I didn’t think there was a charm that could do that.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about the place,” he said, doing his best to ignore the vocal change, comforted by overheard conversations sounding similar. “It’s got too much power of its own.” He glanced around at the many tables occupied, seemingly filled by muggles as not a single wand was in sight. He supposed the patrons took the rules seriously. “Who would create such a thing?”

“People are far too easily stuck in the past.”

Draco’s eyebrows quirked at his companion, the flicker of her eyes suggesting she didn’t mean to say it aloud. She shifted uncomfortably, running her fingers over the thigh holster where her wand was stored, and then gestured toward the bar. 

He began looking around the room, seeking out the potions dealer, but having no real idea of what to look for, he gave up as an Old Fashioned was shoved into his hand. 

“The man is in the corner booth. It’s best not to approach him immediately, it’d look suspicious. Let’s just bide our time for the moment,” Macaria leaned into Draco’s side, speaking lowly, and he’d be lying if he said the abashment from the previous night wasn’t crawling into his train of thought. He kept his free hand in his pocket. 

“So, just stand here and stare at him? I’m sure that won’t make him uncomfortable,” he drawled. 

“The tables are full, we can just do what everyone else is doing.”

“Are you asking me to dance?” Draco looked down at her with a hint of a smirk. 

“I could find another partner, if you’d prefer,” she gave him a sharp look, knowing what the flare in his eyes and snow-white grip on his glass meant more than he did. “Leave me alone here for about five minutes and I’m sure I’d get a free drink at least.”

“Wouldn’t that qualify as a risk to your grand plan?” His lips pulled into a frown. 

“Murphy’s Law, might as well give it a head start,” she threw back the remainder of the whiskey. “Yes or no, Malfoy?”

“Fine,” he muttered on injured pride, setting his hand low on her back as they made their way to the floor. He curled the hand into a fist and kept enough distance that the old bat at Hogwarts would be proud. 

“You are a child,” Macaria glanced at the foot of space between them, stepping closer and stamping on his foot. “Oops.”

“ _ Ow _ ,” he hissed. “And you call me a child.”

“Yes, because you are incredibly immature and complain about everything.” 

“I do  _ not _ -” He started and she gave him a stare withering enough to stop him in his tracks. He flattened his hand against her back but refused to look at her again. “It’s not like you have been overtly positive about the situation.”

“Yeah, look who I have to deal with for an indeterminate amount of time.”

“I seem to recall a point in the not-so-distant past where you jumped at the chance to be alone with me,” he leaned to her ear, pressing them closer. “Though, I suppose things are different now.”

“You still have half a bed, don’t you?” 

Draco conceded with a huff and glanced around at the other dancing couples, “do you really think we’ll get anything out of this guy?”

“I’d rather be ahead. I’m not taking this lightly.”

“I’d never accuse otherwise,” formerly silver finally met green, a small part of him appreciating the stern nature of her gaze. “How do you know Athalie?”

Macaria hesitated. Her expression neutral, but clouding over. 

“She was willing to rent without a lease.”

“Simply a landowner, then?” 

“Something of a friend.”

“You seem to keep a lot of those,” he hummed. 

“Last few years of my life have proven to be caustic. It’s easier to be independent,” Macaria looked over his shoulder to the dealer, exhaling at the lack of an opening. 

“The war is over, or hadn’t you heard?” He smirked, easing the tension out of his fingers as the song picked up in pace, spinning her out and back tightly to him, much to her amusement. 

“I wouldn’t be the only one,” she glanced at the couples near them, putting far more energy into their dancing than Draco was willing to allow. He overheard the man next to him actually discussing battle strategy and shook his head inwardly. “What do you think of it, really?”

“The accent I could do without, I don’t need to feel like I am in a muggle film,” he tilted his face towards hers, rolling the words out in the strange timbre. His eyes tightened as she attempted to bite back a grin. “The idea, though, intrigues me.”

“How’s that?” She released her lip from her teeth, mossy depths flashing with something light he couldn’t decipher. He wondered why she hadn’t changed her iris that day. He used to hate that vibrant hue, associating it with rivalry, and ironically - jealousy, until it ate away at him enough to tolerate it. 

He saw the color that liked to hide on rainy days. 

“It’s created a room of nostalgia, yes, however, I believe these places thrive off of the idea that we would keep questioning their existence and how it is they manage to do the things they do,” he held her gaze, centimeters between them. “Otherwise, what would be the fun in it?”

“To drink and be merry?” 

“We could do that anywhere,” he murmured. 

“Got plenty of reasons to,” her smile dimmed. “At least on my end.”

“Then we can enjoy the nostalgia.”

“We do have a reason for being here, you know, beyond drinking.”

“Is the man available?”

“Yes, actually.”

“He can stand to wait a moment. I want to ask you something.”

“I might not answer-”

“Just humor me,” he sighed, picking his words carefully. “Why did you come back to Britain?”

Macaria pursed her lips for the briefest of moments, expression falling flat as her eyes kept to his own. 

“I had unfinished business. Now, can we-” She began to pull away from him, but he held tight to her waist. “We can talk about this later.”

“A straight answer would be appreciated.”

“There’s no time for this,” she frowned slightly until he lifted one hand to her jaw, angling her to him again, his expression imploring. “I...I came back for your trial. I submitted memories. I thought about staying and working at the ministry and that’s how I heard about what was going down at the charity event.”

“You were training to be an auror?” His mind went through a whirlwind of emotions, ending in fury. “What the fuck did you show them?”

“Enough to get you out,” she said between clenched teeth. “We’ve got one shot with this guy. Either get over it or drink yourself sorry at the bar. I’m going.” She casually stepped away from the dance floor, as if they weren’t about to get into another shouting match, making her way towards the man who may tell them absolutely nothing - or save his life.

Draco watched her size the man up, offering her hand, and giving him a smile the opposite of demure. The swaying couples moved around him like a vortex and he felt glued to the spot. 

He finally worked up the nerve to approach them when the man put his arm behind her on the back of the booth. 

“Vincent, my love, Henri was just telling me something fascinating,” Macaria beamed, dragging him down into the seat next to her, so close their thighs were touching and she patted his cheek. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He can help us with our little problem.”

“Oh yeah?” He said as a waitress dropped off a round of firewhisky, sipping at it as Macaria leaned further into him. 

“It’s a common buy, nothing to be ashamed about,” the dealer, youthful in demeanor, though the lines around his eyes spoke a different story. 

“...ashamed?” Confusion spiked into his brain as he looked between the two of them.

“Impotence potion!” She grinned as Draco choked on his drink. “He’s got his own formula and everything.”

“No, no. I don’t-”

“It’s just business,” the dealer cut in. “I don’t judge.”

“Henri has been so kind, offering a discount for future purchases too,” Macaria slid a napkin to a fuming Draco. “Having your own formula, though, that’s an accomplishment.”

“I’ve got far more impressive originals, if you’re interested.”

“Plenty. We’ve got other interests as well,” she swirled the tumbler in her hand, ever the conniving Slytherin he knew her to be. Draco, having steadied his racing heart, leaned back into the discussion. 

“Something new I’ve created puts a few spells to shame,” Henri lowered his voice after a sip of his drink. “It depends on what exactly you are looking for, as well. A nice girl like you doesn’t need to mess with the dark side of the trade.”

“My Vincent and I have heard some talk about an initiative,” appearing to ignore the dig. “If you know anything about that.”

“From across the pond?” He continued as she nodded. “They’ve got this bright idea of chasing down some racists and making a spectacle of it.”

“What’s so wrong about that?” Draco added as the dealer gave a short laugh.

“Not that I don’t have an issue with racists or with the extra product movement, but personally, I think it’s a dangerous game not worth playing.”

“From what I’ve heard so far, they’ll certainly get a headstart with you brewing for them,” Macaria pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, crossing one leg over the other. Draco dropped a hand onto her thigh, knowing all too well the man could see it by the keen glance he gave the movement. 

“The product is costly and difficult to make, it’s really only useful in the interest of saving time. Maybe to avoid unwanted attention - which doesn’t add up given how much attention is already on the group, but who am I to question a paying customer?” Henri appeared to find her pearl necklace fascinating and Draco’s hand flexed securely. 

“You’ve got me so curious,” she looked at him with wide eyes, a secretive smile at her lips. Draco wondered if her face was hurting from all the airs put on. “What does your potion do?”

“Well,” the dealer did a quick search for eavesdroppers. “It’s kind of like a combination between polyjuice and the imperius. I suppose those wanting the deeds done don’t want their hands dirty.”

“That’s impressive,” Macaria looked as if she lost her character for a moment, springing back quickly. “How do they maintain the control?”

“A secondary potion, linking the two, a strand of the controlled’s hair in each,” he shrugged, tapping his rings against the tumbler. 

“Well, I’d like to think all that nasty business isn’t so close to home,” Macaria shook her head.

“I’d give it a few weeks, maybe. Seems the majority of those they’re after have fled Britain and scattered.”

“Why do you think they’d come here?” Draco asked.

“Magic here is unlike anywhere else. Wouldn’t surprise me to see more than a few of those Death Eaters hiding under it,” Henri glanced at his watch, then turned his attention to Macaria. “I’ve got a friend coming by, so I’ll have to cut this short, but darling if you’re serious about my product - I’ll be available within the hour,” he looked at Draco. “I’ve got other services I can provide as well.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Draco bit out as the man left the booth, certainly not appreciating the lasting smirk as he made his way to the bar. 

“Could you not act like a possessive rabid animal for once,” Macaria shoved his hand off of her leg and lost any sense of the sweet-talking debutant facade. “You don’t need to stake your claim everywhere. Not that you have one.”

“That guy was a wanker,” he frowned. “Didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring down your dress.”

“So what? I got the information we needed.”

“Yeah and you didn’t need to proclaim that I have an ineffective prick, now did you?” He muttered under his breath and she didn’t even try to hide her laugh. “More like ineffable.”

“It wouldn’t bother you unless you really do have something to tell me,” she kept up her mirth and slid out of the booth. “He is offering a discount.”

“Oh, shove off. Shag him if you want, I don’t give a fuck,” he followed as she went to the far end of the bar, away from the dealer to pay the tab. “What are we just done here, then?”

“You want to stay?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he crossed his arms, looking down at her. “Maybe I just want to enjoy a drink and not have to stare at your two-faced mug.”

“Are we seriously back on this?”

“I don’t appreciate my dirty laundry being shown to the entire goddamn ministry,” he said in a low, deadly voice, glaring at her with a renewed temper. 

“Let’s talk about this outside,” Macaria took a hold of his bicep as the bartender took the coins.

“No,” he ripped his arm away from her. “Here is fine. I want another drink.”

“Good luck paying for it,” she spit out, walking through the room, and out of the speakeasy before he could get another word in. 

Draco dragged a hand down his face, deciding on giving it a few minutes before leaving. 

He didn’t have any money, after all. 

-

In his second night of wandering the city, he was surprised to learn the owlery didn’t have much in the way of hours - simply a magically automated parchment and quill once given a few sickles that he’d found in a tip jar - not that anyone else was around to miss it. 

Draco found himself at a loss. Who could he write to? Would it help anything? He decided after the third splatter of ink on the parchment from his hesitation. 

**_Theo,_ **

**_Tell my mother I’m alive and safe. I don’t know when I’ll return. Watch over her._ **

He didn’t sign it, simply tied it to the international owl that approached him, idly wondering if he had just made a massive mistake. 

The noise of the birds quickly got to his head, hastening his retreat from the building. He found his way back to Athalie’s shop quicker than the time before, though her expression seemed to be less enthused, somehow. 

He expected the flat to be quiet and dark, but as he got beyond the wards and into the bedroom, he heard the shower running and some muggle contraption playing music. He picked up the papers from the window, looking for her headlines without realizing it until he found two.

**_DON’T UNDERESTIMATE A MAGICAL EDUCATION_ **

**_BY: M. LIGHTLAUDER_ **

**_CONTACT YOUR LOCAL MINISTRY REPRESENTATIVE WITH ZONING ISSUES_ **

**_BY: M. LIGHTLAUDER_ **

“Why do you write this drivel?”

“Are you calling my writing drivel?” Macaria deadpanned as she exited the bathroom in her nightclothes.

“The topics, they’re all over the place. You’d think the editor would want you in a single column or something,” he conjured a cup of tea, leaning back against the window as she went about her routine. 

“Perhaps my talents are all-encompassing.”

“Use those talents to spin a story about me?” Draco stood. “Submit a testimony along with Granger and Potter? I know you were all friendly with them back at school.”

“I cannot believe you’re angry that I helped get you out of Azkaban. Go yell at them then, they actually stood in front of the Wizengamot for you.”

“They at least had a spine not to go behind my back,” he slammed the mug on the dresser as he neared her. She appeared nonplussed at his action and set down her hairbrush to face him. 

“I didn’t want to see you, and yet somehow didn’t think you deserved to rot for being a child caught up in a war. Please, crucify me for that,” she narrowed her eyes. 

“If I wanted you there, I would have  _ asked _ .”

“Oh, fuck off, Draco!”

“What did it take?” He stepped into her space, smirking at their renewed height difference, and allowing a cruel glint in his stare. “What was it that you gave up just to play a hero?”

“It’s not a price you’d ever pay for me, I know that,” she gave a sad laugh, reaching for her wand. 

“Show me.”


	6. Chapter Six

_ Then _

Macaria knew she couldn’t dissuade him.

Once Fred Weasley had set his mind to something, there was no turning back. George was all for the plan to terrorize Umbridge in the most nefarious of ways - deciding their future at the school wasn’t necessary to their life plan. She knew they were too hard-set in their ways to think of any other outcome, not that they wanted to. 

Her and Fred had been steady for nearly a year at that point. He’d met her parents, she had bonded with his siblings and even Ron’s friends when they were around. She’d struck up a strange kind of kinship with Ginny and Hermione over the boys’ general nonsense.

Until one boy’s name was being mentioned just a little too often. 

Macaria couldn’t stand the Slytherin gang of pure-blooded aristocrats and especially couldn’t stand the asinine bet between the boys of how many fifth year girls they could sneak off into a broom closet with. They never acknowledged her presence though - or simply chose to ignore it - as she would sit by herself at the Slytherin table, or have Fred’s robes thrown over her to sit at Gryffindor’s without being noticed. The Greengrasses were kind enough to her, but when it came to anything beyond a “hello” in a shared class, they often sided with Parkinson in a sneer. 

She often overheard the boys talking about their conquests across house lines, that the Slytherin girls outside of their group were “nothing worth mentioning”. Despite having the wonderful and faithful boyfriend, the insult stung in a way she didn’t anticipate. 

Macaria was left wondering when her friends had stopped listening over her gripes of the blond boy who wouldn’t let her get twenty feet down a corridor without pulling aside the flavor of the week and kissing the life out of the poor wench. Eventually, she ceased mentioning it and found there wasn’t much else beyond the usual fervor of an Umbridge dictatorship bothering her. Their group had gone back to their usual schemes, disappearing a lot, and she felt the whole of them pulling away from her - like she couldn’t be trusted.

Fred had started to look like he had something to say, but he never did. It was so unlike him that it got under her skin and she began to worry constantly, sneaking into her mind even when they were together and it felt like nothing was wrong. He’d planned a late rendezvous of dancing in the Astronomy tower, when he assured her that no one of interest was doing rounds that night. She felt like things were okay. 

Even he began to disappear more and more, and she was often left alone. It felt like she had just transferred all over again. She practiced more of her wandless and nonverbal, rivalling those who bragged about their advancements in that spellwork. Her wand didn’t betray her often anymore, growing more attuned with her intent each day. 

The night after the twin’s expulsion, Fred had asked to meet up in Hogsmeade, one of their places that he’d referred to as “the best snogging location” that he’d discovered. It was a bitterly cold night and even the warming charm she’d cast on herself wasn’t doing much to alleviate the wind. He was already there, in all his tall glory, with an almost pitying smile that sent a lead weight straight into her gut. 

_ I don’t think your heart is in this anymore. _

_ I think we’re better off apart. _

_ You’re my first love, you’ll always be that. _

He would speak and she would be one step closer to falling apart, then and there. It was like she was under the surface and he simply looked on as she struggled. She didn’t know what to say to him. Pleading that he was wrong about how she felt wouldn’t undo what was going through his head. She knew there would always be that inkling in the back of his mind that she wanted something different - that he could never be enough for her. 

She walked away without any concern for the cold anymore. The parting kiss on her temple had faded quicker than she could process the few minutes they’d spent together. She wanted to run back and scream at him that he had no right to not trust her, he was always keeping secrets and had effectively removed her from his life without a care. She had only one thought running through her overwhelmed consciousness.

_ And then we were strangers again... _

Macaria stumbled her way back to the castle, using one of the hidden entrances the twins had told her about awhile back, attempting to block out any thoughts of how she knew the way. She didn’t realize how loud the shuffling of her feet was until a sharply nasal voice shouted at her, rounding a corner in the dungeons. 

“Hey!” Malfoy’s wand lit up, not two feet away from her face. His sneer faltered ever so slightly, venom continuing to stain his words. “Oh, it’s  _ you _ .”

Her silence seemed to bother him as his shoulders tensed further and she began to wonder why she wasn’t crying. She thought people normally did that after a breakup. Her jaw began to ache from the strain on it, though her eyes were glued to the trouble behind his grey ones. 

“On a late night tryst with the Weasel? Of course you were, you bloody house traitor,” his wand lowered slightly. “It’s not like anyone else has taken an interest in you.” 

“Why not me?” She folded her arms across her chest, feeling a surge of indignation. “Why everyone else, but not me?”

Malfoy’s brows pulled together briefly as his lips curled. 

“Why should I want something already spoiled?” 

“You’re an asshole,” she matched his condescending glare. “And clearly that’s not an issue with half of the other girls you’ve had.”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” he shrugged, stepping further into her space, his pale skin lit hauntingly by the wand pressing under her chin. She truly couldn’t escape his gaze, pulse thrumming as his breath fanned across her face. “Always running around with the Gryffindors.”

She tried to pretend her heart didn’t lurch at that, that she’d probably just run out of the friends she actually did manage to make. 

“Not anymore,” she exhaled, wondering why she bothered to admit it. 

“Weasley break your little heart?” His brow quirked. Her silence was met with a smirk. “Only a matter of time.”

“Too good for me? Is that it?” She scoffed and wanted to look anywhere else, lest she actually start to cry in front of him.

“No,” he seemed to weigh the words on his tongue. “Not even close.”

She didn’t give it a second thought as she knocked his wand out of the way and kissed the life out of him. 

-

Heartbreak had wormed its way into every aspect of her being. Her grades miraculously hadn’t suffered nearly as much - likely because she had next to nothing else to take up her time. Her eyes had lost their usual intensity and the circles under them became more sallow with each restless night. 

The Gryffindors she’d considered friends hadn’t made much of an attempt at an olive branch, they weren’t outright cruel like her fellow snakes, and she would almost prefer that than the uncomfortable smiles at her presence - whenever the Golden Trio even appeared together, that was. 

She sat alone unless forced otherwise. 

Draco had kept up his ludicrous mission of tracking down their schemes, spending his patrol nights chasing after their shadows, and doing his best to please the evil magenta wench. His demeanour towards her didn’t change. He never acknowledged her in front of other people and she hadn’t wanted to test the waters.

Though, every few days, she would find a scrap of parchment falling out of her robes after long hours in the library, a meal in the hall, or after a class where Draco had slipped it in without her noticing. His neat scrawl simply put a time that evening and she would meet him where they’d first kissed. He’d pull her into any empty room or alcove - the intensity raised whenever he appeared agitated - and eventually he’d pull away without another word. 

It got worse after Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban. 

She’d sent a letter to Fred once she’d heard about his father being attacked. She’d hoped her former friends were okay, even if they seemed to think she was on the wrong side. 

She didn’t hear back.

Macaria knew that she should feel used or guilty or any other awful emotion at what she’d gotten herself into, but she found quickly that she liked getting lost in him. She didn’t have to think about anything else except how he smelled and how he felt. 

Draco was always angrier, rougher, more controlling. 

She tried not to get stuck on the moments in which he stopped to catch his breath, slotting his nose against hers, and just closed his eyes like he was content. 

A few months into the new term, an envelope with messy, child-like handwriting dropped in front of her plate at breakfast. She only ever got letters from her friends across the pond, or occasionally from her parents, and none of them had that painfully familiar scribble. She picked it up with both hands and just stared at it for a moment, getting the inkling that someone was watching her, glancing around to see Draco’s eyes flitting away at the far end of Slytherin’s table. 

She dropped it back onto the wood, made an attempt to finish the meal, and did her best not to think about it.

She had nearly forgotten about the unopened letter then stowed away in her bag until Draco had dragged her away from the portrait entrance before the password could escape her a few minutes before curfew. His grip on her wrist nearly bruising as he shoved her into an alcove hidden behind a tapestry, a renewed fervor in the pressure of his lips and strength of his hands at her hips. Muttering low in her ear when he took a breath.

_ “I don’t share.” _

-

The end of her Fifth Year was much of the same. 

Somehow, Draco became even more distant. Disappearing on random weekends and looking more shaken after each one - occasionally The Prophet would give him away. He was a hurricane and still waters, taking all he could from her and pretending she didn’t exist. 

She didn’t feel any shame in the fact that it had only taken a few weeks into their arrangement to get fully comfortable with him. That she’d surrendered any abashment to take what he offered - and considering the Wizarding world was going into shambles - she thought she might as well enjoy someone wanting her in that way while it lasted. 

It didn’t erase the slow tide of dread that he was entrenched in something she wanted no part of. Though, the more he retreated, the more they began to resemble each other, and she began to wonder where his heart really was. 

She began to learn his expressions, how he would move when he was anxious or agitated. The way his lips would quirk when he was hiding something or the deadened look in his eyes that seemed to come about more often than not. It never appeared in those stolen moments together though, she took some solace in that. 

Macaria got the inkling that he must have mentioned her in passing at home - though likely not as his little half-blood infatuation - but the invading and introverted American. After her first published piece about endangered magical species relocation showed up in the Prophet and then another on Earth magic in the Ghost, hailing her as their fresh faced new writer, she received a congratulatory letter from Narcissa Malfoy. 

Draco never discussed anything directly with Macaria, so she thought there was no reason to bring it up. Or the invitation to afternoon tea in Muggle London, just a week after the term ended. 

On the train heading away from the castle, Macaria was ready to head into an empty compartment near the luggage room, when the pale and lanky boy appeared in her peripheral. She almost didn’t recognize him with a black knit cap covering his bright, blond hair - and she wanted to pretend it didn’t hurt that he wore it to not be seen with her. 

_ Or maybe _ , her mind pestered,  _ not to be seen at all _ .

Draco stepped into the compartment before her and she rolled her eyes at the lack of aristocratic manners. She closed the door and sat down across from him, eyeing his fidgeting fingers in his lap and the way he was nearly curled in on himself. She crossed her legs at the ankles and waited for him to do whatever it was he came to do.

“We shouldn’t continue...this,” he said quietly, a hard edge to his voice, keeping his eyes on the passing scenery.

“This? How eloquent,” she snorted. Apparently, giving the wrong reaction if his glare was anything to go by. “I’m well aware  _ this _ didn’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” 

“I have other priorities now. I can’t waste my time anymore.”

“Fine,” her mouth set into a hard line as she glanced at his hands again, a small tremor ran down his arm and he clenched them into fists. 

“Fine,” he stood and made for the door.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Draco?” She couldn’t help as the words slipped out, thinking of the front-page picture of him and Narcissa after the sentencing. The way he was more than apprehensive, if one knew what to search for. 

“Sometimes doing the right thing is the last thing that it appears to be,” he paused, releasing his breath like he’d said far too much, and swept out of the compartment. 

-

After a surprise, whirlwind vacation to the American South at the behest of her father, Macaria couldn’t decide whether she was relieved or anxious to return in time to accept Narcissa’s invitation. 

She confided in her mother about some of the situation, leaving out who the mystery boy was because she knew that her mother religiously read the papers. Her parents had adored Fred and the way she’d brightened up with him in her life and her mother relentlessly pestered her about what happened. Leaving Britain had come up more than a few times because of Kora Lightlauder’s birth status. Aidon, her father, did his best to hide that fact due to his job as a government consultant between Wizarding Britain and M.A.C.U.S.A. was far too great a jump in his career to leave. 

Macaria would be dishonest if she said she didn’t miss Ilvermorny. 

The repressed longing compounded when she found herself sitting across from Lady Malfoy in an overpriced cafe. 

A slight tremor in the hand of the elder woman caused a ripple to run across the surface of her tea. 

She wondered why all the Malfoys began to look the same.

-

Macaria was at a loss.

Truly, feeling like a silly little girl, letting a boy treat her as a doormat. 

She didn’t have to respond to his curt owl and certainly didn’t have to agree to meeting him in a private room at the Three Broomsticks the night before returning to Hogwarts. Her father - albeit illegally - had taught her how to apparate over the long summer, worrying for her safety in the rise of Voldemort. 

The owner of the place hurried her out of the usual crowd’s sight, upstairs, and into a large bedroom with a tray of hot tea at the sitting area. The woman didn’t spare more than a few words, nearly slamming the door and leaving a wake of silence behind her. 

Her feet swung slowly as she sat on the edge of the expansive bed, feeling the minutes drag on, and as it turned fifteen passed their meeting time - she stood to leave.

Suddenly, the fireplace roared to life and Draco stepped through in a fitted black suit, brushing ash away from his shoulders. His face a blank slate, even as he set his grey eyes on her, he gave nothing away.

“You look nice,” her throat feeling tight. She’d only seen his picture for the last few months and being less than ten feet away from him had her thoughts running through all the different things he could say. 

He settled for very few.

“Just, please,” muttered in a low, gravelly tone. He erased the distance and his hands enveloped her face, eyes flitting between her own in the only way he’d ever ask permission. She gave a slight nod and he devoured her mouth, biting and sucking at her lower lip until she tasted copper. She grabbed at his lapels and he pulled her thin blouse from the confines of her skirt. The scent of his aftershave eased her nervous heart, a new weight settling in her chest at his desperate actions. 

He tilted her head back, sliding his tongue over hers, and his other hand snaking up her back to undo the clasp of her bra. Her brain began to slow in a lust-filled haze, fiddling with the silk of his tie, dragging his hips closer by his belt buckle. He pulled away for a moment as she gently slid her hand over his cheek, feeling his slight flush warming her palm. 

Then everything in him seemed to break.

Before he could blink the emotion away, his vision blurred, and his breathing turned to gasps in her arms. 

“I can’t do this - I can’t-” he rasped, shaking his head. His lips quivered slightly, a tear trailing down the sharp planes of his face. Her heart lurched at the sight. 

“Draco, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she did her best to soothe, backing them onto the edge of the mattress as his shoulders tremored. “We don’t have to do anything.” He shook his head again, trying to slow his breathing. 

“It’s the Dark Lord. He’s...he’s ensuring that I’ll succeed where my father failed,” he fidgeted with one of his jacket sleeves, boring a hole into the comforter with reddening eyes. “I don’t have a choice.”

“What has he asked of you?” She threaded her fingers through pallid strands, urging his eyes upwards, regretting it as she saw everything he sought to bury. The devastation and resignation embedded in silver, the light dying in them as it does in a child who has seen far too much in their years. 

He hesitated, “I can’t see you again after tonight.”

“That’s what you said last time,” she felt a small smile tugging at her lips, though she knew he found no humour in it. 

“You shouldn’t have come here, you need to stay away from me,” he made to stand, but faltered as she latched onto his wrists, managing to nearly cover up a wince. “Don’t.”

“You,” she exhaled. “Said ‘after tonight’.”

She might’ve laughed at the incredulous look he gave her if another query weren’t overshadowing. 

“If it comes down to it...to just black and white, is the right thing going to  _ look _ like the right thing?”

“I hope it does.” He gave a grim smile. “If it doesn’t, I’ll be dead anyway.”

“It’s not just you, is it?” She said, knowing she couldn’t reassure. That there was so little she could do for him. This troubled boy, jaded by circumstance and razing anything good in his path. 

“This is so much more than me,” Draco’s eyes were dry then. Her pulse began to skyrocket as he slowly looked over her, ashen irises turning to obsidian. She relaxed her hold of his arms, trailing up his chest, lines of sinew so familiar.

Unhurriedly, he reached for the fastenings on the back of her skirt, undoing them with ease as his sense of control was rebuilt - brick by brick - slipping out of the suit jacket. His jaw tensed as his tie was loosened from around his throat, her fingers fumbling through the buttons on his expensive shirt. 

She felt a hot blush creep up her cheeks, sitting there in front of him with all her clothes loosened, but not quite removed. He didn’t seem to pay any mind, letting the dress shirt pool at his elbows; the skin such a pure white, she could see the veins mapping out the lean architecture of his frame. He was always beautiful, though it was so rare that she got to look. 

A shiver ran up her spine as he seemed to lose his patience, evening out their state of undress. His shirt and trousers met the floor faster than she could blink, her skirt ripped down to join them. As she settled in the center of the massive bed, he kneeled between her parted legs, appreciative eyes lingering over the expanse of smooth skin - uncaring at the sight of her modest remaining undergarment. 

Draco leaned over her, not bothering with a gradual build up in his touch, dipping his fingers south as his tongue invaded her lips, moving quickly to bite and suck at her pulse points. Hot and needy, and almost full of dread if she let herself think that this was truly the last time she would ever be with him. That he’d never be around to scratch that itch of being touched like someone wanted her, blood boiling at the thought of him being with someone else.

The resentment spurred her hands to life, wanting to hurt him as much as he was going to hurt her all over again. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and grasped him through the boxer-briefs, satisfied with the low groan released into the bruise he was leaving on her neck. She gasped as he shoved two fingers into her, biting down hard on her shoulder. 

He smirked in his retaliation, ridding them of their last articles, giving a languid kiss while her nails teased the muscle in his back. He quirked an eyebrow, daring her to brand and bruise him as she liked. She granted him that - dragging long red lines as he pushed in - enjoying the stinging ache it brought when he was like this. 

Draco was unrestrained, sweat dripping down his temples. Panting and animalistic in each press of his hips against hers, one hand moved to grip her throat and the other grasped the headboard. 

It wasn’t until he dropped his head to her shoulder, overwhelmed in the sensations, that she saw the ink spread over his inner forearm. The way it was angry and scarlet like his skin was ready to burst at the seams.

It sunk in all at once. He’d never be the boy she was falling for ever again.


	7. Chapter Seven

_ Then _

  
  


Macaria wasn’t sure when her mother had figured it out.

When she had finally connected all the dots of the mysterious boy who’d gone and broken her heart time and time again, even though she wasn’t sure she’d recovered from the beginning of it all. When she’d asked why someone like Narcissa would continue to owl her, to send her books, to send her heavy envelopes of official looking parchments. 

Kora had had enough of it all and finally won over her husband enough to move them back to the States. It was more than halfway through Sixth year and Macaria was almost grateful to not have to look at Draco or anyone else who didn’t care for her existence any longer. Though, his ghostly appearance throughout the year had her wondering if he would simply fade into nothing by the end of it. She didn’t have to track his behavior any longer, but she found herself wondering about the strange and dark events at the school. If he had anything to do with them. 

Ilvermorny felt like a strange dream - each day back like she wasn’t in the right place and was just a strange, older version of when she had left. Transfers were unusual in any regard, but her coming back was again overshadowed by something greater. The unrest in Wizarding Britain was enough of an excuse. Her mother gave a knowing look each time the Death Eaters were mentioned - as if she knew how much Macaria wanted to ask him to leave it all behind. 

Her parents began to grow as restless as she felt, questioning her future so often in frequent letters to the school that she began to avoid any of their questions. Responding curtly and to the point. Eventually, they stopped asking.

The death of Albus Dumbledore sent Wizarding Statesmen into a frenzy, those pushing for action from M.A.C.U.S.A. in stopping the rise of Voldemort. 

They did nothing. Macaria didn’t know whether or not to be relieved. 

She had a thought trembling in the back of her mind, pestering her in its familiar dread that she found herself penning an incredibly informal owl to the one person still talking to her from across the pond. 

**_Tell me it wasn’t him._ **

The reply came days later, on the same sheet of parchment, an elegant scrawl just a few inches below her own. 

**_Failure is consistent in this line. Owls are too easily intercepted. Use your talents._ **

**_It’ll go both ways. Be safe._ **

She breathed a sigh of relief, worried for the immediate future all the same. She pondered the rest of the note, if she was clever enough to communicate in the way she needed to, if she was any use from the confines of her parents home.

Then, she asked to spend the summer in New Orleans with her Wampus friend, Athalie. 

Athalie was a year ahead of her in school and ready to take over the family shop down south. The flat above the store had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a small kitchen. 

She thought it couldn’t be more perfect. 

Macaria did her best to enjoy the warmth and pleasant nature of the city, yet still allowed the strain of all she needed to do pull her mood down with each passing day. It was even worse when she realized the ache in her heart wasn’t just worry, but that she missed him. That fact alone sent her into a spiral of how she could possibly miss someone who had never treated her as anything more than a distraction, who had made snide comments and relentlessly antagonized her former friends. The one who had made her crave his attention enough to lose the boy she had genuinely loved.

The Death Eater, serving under a tyrant, and potentially fighting against her ex-boyfriend at any given moment. 

Part of her hated the idea of being so far away from it all, though it was often overshadowed by the relief. One respite was being a part of the media, occasionally getting the bigger headlines before anyone else as they fit in her smaller stories. The papers accepted her as a contracted writer, likely because she didn’t care much about the individual topics, and her pay was less than one of their full-time staff. 

She grasped the meaning of that final note once she was perusing anonymous quotes around a story on the future of dragons under the Dark Lord’s rising regime within The Prophet by one of their lesser known writers. 

“ _ Dragon protection is essential, their existence is contingent on upheld international contracts, despite any future ministry transitions.” _

-

  
  


Her seventh year passed in a blur.

She worried her fingers on enough Prophet front pages that they were near constantly stained with ink. Athalie started hiding them by Christmas. 

The day that the editor had given her an early paper, she was never more grateful for anything in her life. 

The dragon of Gringotts had been released and she knew she was out of time. 

Leaving Athalie a brief missive in their shared dorm, she made her way out of the grounds, activating a long-stashed portkey, and was swept away.

  
  


-

  
  


Knockturn Alley was about as dark and depressing as she expected, even worse so by the overwhelming dust and smoke from the tattered bank. She could see the damage from where she stood, the crumbled pieces of stone being slowly cleared away. 

She pulled up the hood of her cloak, ignoring the stares of wayward wizards as she walked past them to Diagon Alley. The evening was quickly settling over London and her footsteps echoed as she reached Ollivander’s abandoned shop. There were no signs of life within it, but if her hunch was right, she wouldn’t be alone for long. 

Macaria made sure no one was watching as she unlocked the door, stepping beyond the threshold and keeping her fingers against her wand strapped to her thigh. She’d had many months to plan out this particular outfit, opting for dark No-Maj jeans with a holster made to blend into one side. Her cloak was long and thin, knowing Britain would retain more of its chill, even in May. 

The crack of apparition startled her as another cloaked figure appeared in the back of the shop, quickly making their way to where she stood through all the mess. She must have triggered some ward set for it to be so quick. 

“Blaise,” she gasped. A faint smirk reached his lips but didn’t erase the troubled look in his eyes. 

“I don’t have much time,” he pulled a small bag from his robes, still in his Hogwarts uniform. “This is what was passed along to me. I suggest staying away until you can’t.”

“What about you?” She felt instant regret as the words slipped from her mouth, he raised an eyebrow and the previous weariness was shadowed by condescension. 

“Me? I wasn’t stupid enough to get in over my head. Or,” he narrowed his eyes. “Foolish enough to jump back into a war that I was granted an out from.”

“Does he know?”

“Dear Narcissa was wise enough to know he’d never agree to anything like this, not for all he’s gone through. You may think you’re about to save his life, but he’ll hate you for it until the end of time,” Blaise shook his head. “He hasn’t planned out his future like you have. He doesn’t expect there will be one.”

“And he’s told you this?” She pressed her lips together, doing her best to school her emotions and not let the fierce blush of shame well up on her cheeks.

“I know him well enough to see it.” Blaise glanced out the window briefly. “Time’s up.”

He turned on his heel and apparated away. 

  
  


-

It wasn’t until the wards fell and the battle was underway that Macaria apparated to the grounds. 

She dodged curses, breaking into a sprint as Death Eaters turned their wands on her, finally allowing her wand to fight back. Hexes and other spells she didn’t even recognize spouted from it, flinging the other cloaked figures from the bridge and away from battling students. 

As she made it into the castle, there were too many lost souls to count, each pulling at her heartstrings, but she had a mission to complete. She searched for that distinctive hair - though her mind couldn’t make up between red or platinum as she made her way through the long corridors. 

Macaria’s eyes met Blaise’s first, dark and wide as he ran around a corner with Draco not far behind him. Both covered in dirt and ash and not seeming to notice her at all. They were too far away and already disappeared around another bend before she could call out to them. 

_ At least he’s alive. _

She hadn’t seen Narcissa anywhere, nor anyone else she felt a real pull to, but she had to find him. She continued down the hall, nearing the grand staircase. She had to do what was right, even though he would never do it for himself. 

As she neared the entrance to the Great Hall, magic prickled up her spine in an unfamiliar way, her wand nearly searing in her palm as a large beast-like figure approached her from the shadows. The recesses of her mind screaming  _ ‘GREYBACK’ _ as his long, bloodied fangs caught the light. 

His gaze was intense and menacing as her wand raised to him, a purple hex releasing to hit him in the chest. He didn’t flinch. 

He smiled in his own twisted way as her eyes widened in fear. 

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, her mind blanking momentarily as he was only a few paces away. “ _ Flipendo! _ ” He easily batted it away. “ _ Confringo! _ ”

Greyback stumbled back away enough for her to cast a sticking hex on his feet, attempting to circumvent him towards the Great Hall, until he growled out, “ _ Expulso. _ ”

Her body was thrown into the stone wall, vision turning white as her head made contact, and she slumped to the ground - wand rattling as it rolled away from her hand. She felt, rather than heard, the werewolf’s approach, as his long fingers wrapped around her throat - cutting off all air. 

Greyback raised her up against the wall by her neck, grinning wickedly as red-tinged saliva dripped from his mouth to her chest. 

“I’m going to have fun with you,” he dug a pointed nail into her flesh, just under her pulse point and she couldn’t help the rasping shriek of pain as blood rushed out. Macaria wondered if anyone could hear her.

Then she realized she didn’t have to speak. 

His tongue swiped up the side of her face, teeth grazing her cheekbone as she  _ Accioed _ her wand. She tried to not focus on the spots clouding her vision, instead putting all of her energy into a silent  _ Defodio _ .

She felt her magic falter as her breathing waned into nothing. The hand latched to his bruising grip began to loosen as his jaws opened impossibly wide, ready to bury himself into her shoulder. In that split second between life and death, she drove her wand into his jugular with all the strength she had left. She didn’t even know if the gouging spell had worked, but as his darkened blood splattered over her skin when she pulled the implement out, he dropped her back down to the ground.

Greyback stumbled away, hands covering his wound, and the purest form of rage in his eyes. He looked so desperately like he wanted to speak, but choked on every syllable as his windpipe collapsed. She sat, half splayed out, air finally surging into her lungs as he died only a few feet away. 

She looked down at her wand, merely wiping away the gore on her jeans, unable to process what it really was - even when his chest stopped its palpitations and he was still. 

“Macaria?” A feminine voice in the distance. “Oh, god.”

She felt a small, calloused hand reach for her neck, and barely comprehending the flash of ginger hair in her line of sight. A muttered incantation and her skin began to knit back together where Greyback pierced it, the flow of blood finally staunched. Though, she felt in her sluggishness that she’d lost too much. 

“Ginny?” She heard herself slur, almost drunken sounding as the grip on her wand faltered again. Her jaw was pulled open, something poured in, and shut again with her nose pinched until she forced a swallow. 

“You might need another one later, but that’s all I have on me,” Ginny’s wearied face came into focus after a moment or two, strength building in her muscles. “I can’t believe you killed him.”

“He was...gross,” Macaria muttered and Ginny choked out a laugh, heaving her up under her arms. Macaria steadied herself against the wall for a moment, her mission flooding back into her mind as she started to stumble her way towards the Great Hall. 

“There’s more fighting in there! You should find somewhere to rest,” Ginny shook her head, but followed along as Macaria picked up the pace and finally reached the damaged opening. 

There was too much happening all at once. 

She spotted Draco immediately, dodging curses as Blaise kept up a shield not more than twenty feet away from him. There were too many duels between them to reach him quickly, though as one spell ricocheted off of Blaise’s  _ Protego _ and back to the caster, he was freed up enough to spot her. 

Macaria must’ve been a sight. A scattering of scarlet spots across her face and even more muddied stains on her jeans. She didn’t know if the blood from her own wound had been cleared off or if she still looked like she was dying. 

She did know the look was fierce enough that he began to cross the expansive room, looking angry enough to kill her. 

George Weasley caught her eye then, fighting back to back with Fred, and appearing to miss an ear. She diverted on her path forward to cast a hex at the Death Eater attacking George. He sent two rapid fire curses at either target and she ducked out of the way, advancing quicker as Ginny fired off at another Death Eater approaching them from behind. 

Macaria was able to incapacitate him, but only as he was distracted in sending a powerful  _ Bombarda _ at the twins, toppling them both over. The other foe was quick to hurl a flash of purple towards Macaria as she approached from the side, losing track of Ginny entirely. 

Fred suddenly stood, George dazed and panting at his feet from taking the full force of the blast. He brandished his wand, a spell at his lips, when he was knocked to the side by a  _ Flipendo _ . Macaria then saw the flash of green whiz past her and hit a wall with a loud crack. The Death Eater hesitated as they saw Draco not ten feet away, moving the point of his wand from Fred to the cloaked figure. 

“Traitor!” They hissed, hurling curse after curse. Draco’s eyes hardened as he built up a powerful shield, deflecting all but one that ripped straight through and to his side. Macaria cast a  _ Reducto _ with renewed fervor, sending the Death Eater flying through an opening where a window had once been. 

Draco had his back to her, pausing to take a deep breath, and not giving any emotion away when he turned as Fred got up again to stare incredulously.

“ _ You _ saved my life?” Fred shook his head in disbelief, hauling George up to his feet. He seemed to finally notice Macaria. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Werewolf,” she shrugged, looking at Draco. He pursed his lips and stalked away while Fred stared, jaw hanging open. She started to follow until Fred grasped her arm and suddenly she felt like there wasn’t a battle continuing to rage around them. 

“Are you okay?” He searched her eyes with an old familiarity, loosening his grip to a gentle one. “I thought you left.”

“I’m fine,” she relaxed the painful tension in her shoulders. “I came back.”

“ _ Why? _ ” He stepped closer. 

“I had to,” she broke away from him then, wondering if he expected her to say that she came back for him. 

Maybe a part of her did.

She caught up with Draco in the hall and when she touched his shoulder he immediately turned to grip her throat, shoving her up against the stone while his wand pressed into her gut.

Macaria was getting tired of being thrown around. 

“What part of ‘ _ Stay away _ ’ did you not get?” He sneered and she rolled her eyes as his fingers clenched tight. 

“Oh, just do it already,” She rasped, keeping her wand at her side and the other loosely on his wrist. “Save me the trouble.”

He huffed and dropped his hands.

“You stupid girl, just run back home. This isn’t your fight,” Draco said with finality. 

She was about to tell him that it certainly was her fight, tell him everything, but then an unfamiliar hissing voice pierced her mind like an ice pick. Draco winced.

“. _.. _ _ You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself… _ ”

As the ringing in her ears ceased, her eyes opened, and Draco was gone.

-

  
  


She didn’t see him again until he was crossing the courtyard to join his parents - and the rest of the Death Eaters. 

She felt powerless to stop him, and even worse when he hesitated,  _ waiting _ for someone to stop him. 

The sight of Voldemort had paralyzed her more than she expected. 

Narcissa kept Draco close to her as the Dark Lord declared that Harry Potter was dead, beckoning for people to walk to his side.

The sharp pang in her heart at the loss of an old friend, at the loss of everything, that Narcissa’s plan would amount to nothing. 

Voldemort wasn’t supposed to win.

She’d never make it to him now, he’d be swept away when the battle recommenced, and dead by morning.

All of it for nothing. 

Neville stepped forward, much to the amusement of the other side, and pulled a grand sword from the Sorting Hat.

It was then that Harry toppled from Hagrid’s arms and Draco threw his wand to him without a second’s hesitation. Voldemort lashed out as Harry ran, taking much of the fight with him. Many of the Death Eaters disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, others stepping forward in the courtyard to resume the fight. 

Voldemort’s wand turned to Narcissa. Macaria couldn’t hear what was said, only feeling as though she were wading through a dream while moving toward them. 

Red sparks flared from the implement, preparing to  _ Crucio _ Narcissa, until Draco stepped in front of her and his father dragged her into the smoke. Her horrified expression painted the back of Macaria’s eyelids as Draco writhed in pain, the Dark Lord seeming to take joy in his suffering. She knew she couldn’t do anything - that the madman would kill her without a second thought. She’d truly be useless then. 

Voldemort disappeared after a moment and Draco’s trembling body lay amongst the rubble. She summoned the will to move forward, the rest of the world a blur as she knelt at his side. She wasn’t sure he could survive a portkey or any attempt to apparate in that state, if he was even conscious.

His eyes opened after a moment, skyward, and so empty it looked as though he expected to be dead. Breaths rattling through his chest, fingers twitching to grasp at nothing. 

“Draco…” she tried, hesitant to touch him. “We have to go.”

“Is my…” his head fell to the side as if he didn’t have the energy to keep his gaze on her. “Is my mother alive?”

“Yes. I don’t know where she is. Your father disappeared with her,” she tried to sound reassuring. 

“I need to find her,” he pushed himself to his elbows. “I don’t trust him.”

“There’s a plan-”

“Where do we need to go? I’ll meet you there,” he looked at her like he was genuinely seeking the answer. She didn’t think he’d agree so easily.

“There’s a house under disillusionment, it’s covered in ivy on Bluebell Lane,” she rushed out, feeling a swell of hope in her chest. He nodded, an indecipherable expression clouding his features. He paused, fully sitting up, tensing as he tried to ease the spasming of his muscles from the curse.

“This is it. It’s black and white.”

And then he wandlessly disapparated.

Macaria was left kneeling in the rubble, staring at the place he just was, doubt bleeding into her mind.

Was it the right thing?

-

After using her wand to it’s deadliest extent on the remaining Death Eaters, she reunited with her old Gryffindor friends in the wake of Voldemort’s death. 

It seemed Ginny had told them about Greyback or they really weren’t suspicious of her intentions anymore. She was exhausted, but glad to be surrounded by their kindness. Fred was strangely attentive towards her and equally as wary. George crushed her in a hug as soon as the battle was won. 

She didn’t realize how much she missed them. 

After promises of meeting up with the lot, she realized it was getting late, and Draco had had more than enough time to find his mother. He said he would follow through and she had to believe that. 

Apparating to the house was simple, despite her tired magical core, she was ready to fulfill her agreements. She knew she had to save his life. 

The flat was dark and cold as she got beyond the wards, made to allow only three people beyond them. She opened a window in the dusty living room, sitting down and against the wall, trying not to worry.

Words echoed around her mind, and not even the haunting voice of the Dark Lord.

_ I want you to save my son. _

_ He will be out of options. I can’t see him rot in Azkaban for being a boy sent down the wrong path. _

She’d fallen asleep on the hardwood, bones aching from the uncomfortable position, and an immediate surge of panic rose in the fact that she was alone. The early revision of the paper was sprawled out near her head on the floor, just a few feet from the open window. 

Draco Malfoy had turned himself in. 

  
  
  


_ Now _

  
  


Macaria was enervated to say the least. 

She dropped her wand to the dresser as the barrage of memories finally ceased. She couldn’t bear to look at Draco. To see what he was thinking. 

“That...was more, obviously. I didn’t show them all of that…” Macaria felt words fail her, a strange sense of despair bubbling up and constricting her throat. She kept her eyes on the floor between them as her vision blurred.

“Why did you do that for me?” 

She looked up at his tone. He sounded  _ heartbroken _ ?

The words rushed out of her before she could even blink. 

“I lost all of me in you. I don’t know where I begin. I don’t know who I am anymore.

Everything I did, I did for you. And I can't even say it was because I was in love with you because that means we were together and you cared about me, but you never did and we never were,” her voice broke and she swiped away the tears that managed to spill over. “I was a passing phase for you and you were just my way of getting over someone I did love. When I was asked to protect you, to save your fucking life, I did my best but you threw it in my face. And now I have to do it all over again. I can’t keep doing this, Draco, if we are just going to hate each other. I’ll keep my promise, but I’ll find you somewhere else to go.”

“Don’t act like you know how I feel,” he pressed forward. “Like I knew anything of you and my mother sneaking around, trying to protect me. I made my own goddamn choices, good or bad, they were my own!”

“If I believed that do you think either of us would be standing here?!” Her voice rose. “I showed them that you were a child and you were! Still are, if you ask me,” she shook her head. She wanted nothing more than to lay in her bed and let sleep claim her, but then she’d be unbearably close to him. She knew that they had already gotten too close again when she woke up one morning, warm in his embrace and finally able to study the new scars marring his alabaster skin. She’d known the stories behind the jagged slashes, Harry had told her - albeit ashamedly - during Draco’s stay in Azkaban. 

The one on his ribcage from that curse he took for saving Fred.

The sporadic tremble in his fingers from all the times he was tortured. 

She couldn’t stand to look at him if he was going to genuinely hate her for the memories, for how she saw him. For how she felt about him. 

“I need some space, I’ll figure out somewhere else for you to stay,” she rushed beyond him and slammed the door behind her. Hoping he wouldn’t follow.

Hoping he would.

He didn’t and she descended the stairs to the shop, knowing Athalie would be still mulling around despite the late hour, and she could use a friend to talk to.

As she rounded the corner, pushing the curtain aside to enter the No-Maj half of the shop, she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the person in a heated conversation with Athalie at the counter. 

“Hermione?”


	8. Chapter Eight

_ Now _

Draco slid down the side of the dresser and collapsed to the floor. 

The humidity had never felt so stifling. 

He pressed his forefingers to the bridge of his nose until it felt as though spikes were piercing their way through his brain. The amount of memories he had just experienced were so much more than just Legilimency. He knew the emotions were hers, but they swirled and blurred with his own so much he started to lose his grasp on where and when he really was. 

Was he really so  _ cruel _ ?

He knew he was a prat at Hogwarts and he’d be hard pressed to find someone who disagreed with that statement. He also knew that she had held back significantly, refusing to show her hand no matter how infuriated he became. 

She had an impressive amount of control in her mind, though when she had learned a shred of Occlumency, he had no idea. 

Greyback’s death was celebrated, though it was never mentioned to him who had done it. That she could have died in the battle his mother beckoned her to by a werewolf who prided himself on murdering and eating children. 

What had Narcissa bribed her with?

She must have had some incentive beyond the apparent hero-complex. Money? The flat in the city? 

He posited for a second that Narcissa might have just offered up her son entirely, but he hadn’t been pushed any which way after his release. Maybe Macaria had really grown to hate him over the year. She could have finally come to her senses in that regard. 

Having any kind of strong feeling for Draco Malfoy that wasn’t rooted in disdain never seemed to help anyone and he didn’t intend to break that streak. 

It didn’t matter how he was seeing her then. He knew she was better off with distance and especially from his boundary-crossing-potentially-Unbreakable-vowing family. 

Though, how she had wanted to stop him from crossing the courtyard, her devastation every time he kept down his disastrous path, and the hope she’d allowed herself to have in that he would do the right thing - it made it very difficult to not run after her. Tell her that he didn’t want to be somewhere else. 

He knew it must have hurt when he told her he had bribed someone to find the address of the house. If he were honest, he had never forgotten. 

If he had to fend off a mob of do-gooders attempting to murder him, he’d rather have a witch who knew her way around a duel at his side. 

He thought it also might have said something that she hadn’t gone back to her old flame, even though he seemed willing, and she had loved him. Or had she and he was just waiting for her after this mess was over with? 

A hot spike of jealousy went through his core at all he didn’t know of his year away. 

-

“How did you…”

Macaria was at a loss, staring agape at the curly-haired witch only a few feet away. Her mind blanked at the impossibility. 

Of course the brightest witch of their age would figure out where they were. 

“Is he here?” She raised an eyebrow, gently setting her palms atop the counter. “Is Mal-”

“Yes.” Macaria moved closer to Athalie, who’d gone into her usual listening disposition. 

“Okay,” Hermione nodded, appearing to devise some grand equation in her head. 

“Please tell me how you are standing here before I hex a Queen,” her voice low and serious. 

Hermione stiffened, “I have been working on a new method of finding people using arithmancy. It requires an intimate knowledge of wand usage and-” she hesitated, averting her eyes for a moment. “Personal lasting effects of dark magic. I suppose this was my first experiment.”

“It’s that easy? It’s only been a few days!” Macaria felt a swell of frustration and she rubbed at her temples. 

She shook her head, “it wasn’t easy. I’ve been working on this since I went back to school for Eighth year, I thought it might be useful for the D.M.L.E. so I kept on it. I didn’t know if it would work until I tried to find you,” her cinnamon eyes glowed with all the knowledge of her new find that she was trying to restrain. “I’ve been trying to find you for longer than he’s been missing.”

“Why? You could have just owled me,” she snuck a glance to Athalie who looked as confused as she felt. 

“You’ve been gone for months. I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me or any of us,” she shrugged, a pang of hurt flickering in her expression. “And I really wanted to test it out. I wasn’t going to bother you, but since everything happened, I had to.”

“Does anyone else know where we are? Or where you are?” 

Macaria started praying that Draco was stubborn enough to stay sulking in their room.

_ Their room... _

Her heart ached a little at the thought.

“No. I didn’t tell anyone I even finished the equation and I used several portkeys here,” Hermione half smiled, looking proud of herself. “I need to tell you something.”

Macaria’s resolve wilted and she was quite exhausted, even as her whole being yearned for sleep and the conversation to not be taking place - she nodded.

“I heard from Kingsley that the man who tried to attack Malfoy at the party was under a new kind of potion, his appearance was altered and he was being controlled by someone else,” Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line for a moment. “So the person had to have been close enough to drug the man’s drink and far away enough to control him without being seen.”

Macaria schooled her expression, “when did they learn this?”

“Yesterday. The man finally came out of it. His memories were altered significantly so the Aurors couldn’t see who drugged him. They’re still trying to figure out who sourced the potion.”

“Kingsley told you this?”

“Yes, but Harry’s been on the case since the safehouse was blown up,” she leaned closer, her fingers fidgeting. “Are you alright?”

“I’m-we’re fine. We got out quickly,” she willed the sting in her eyes to fade, nose prickling with all that evening had brought back to her. 

“Okay, um, there’s more,” she let out a long breath. “Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini have gone missing. Pansy Parkinson. A few other Slytherins.”

“What?” Her mind raced at the thought. Did they have escape plans too? Were they captured and tortured?

It didn’t seem consistent with what had happened to Draco. They appeared to aim to kill.

“It hasn’t gotten out yet. Blaise is a ghost, but the Aurors found residual dark magic at Theo’s place. The rest are similar to Theo.”

Macaria mulled over the information for a moment, her ministrations grinding to a halt and she looked to the brunette.

“Why are you really here?”

Hermione didn’t look taken aback as she expected - she looked as though her last cards were dropped on the table. 

-

Draco shoved the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

The moulding on the ceiling was burned into his retinas from how intensely he was staring at it. It dawned at him that she might not come back at any point during the night. Maybe she’d decided to stay wherever Athalie stayed. 

He felt the hairs prick up on the back of his neck as electricity hummed through the dampened air, a low drawl of thunder echoing nearby. The constant storms were beginning to be a familiar, comforting roar in his ears - so different from the dreary drizzle of Wiltshire. New Orleans was loud and intoxicating, always at least a hum of brass in the distance. 

His mind flitted from one memory of hers to the next. He couldn’t focus on a singular emotion to save his life as he speculated - the overwhelming bout of guilt sinking into his stomach like a stone. 

He had used her and she knew that.

And she thought she had used him right back. 

Maybe she had. It certainly didn’t feel that way to him, though. 

If he let his thoughts linger on Weasley’s involvement in her life, he’d never get beyond that and that wasn’t exactly helping his current predicament. 

Draco wanted to kick himself for being so off-kilter over a witch when his life was at stake. He could have months or moments. 

Yet he was still in that night when she had relaxed into his arms. An almost unbearable heat in the early summer, but he didn’t cast a cooling charm. He’d never slept so well in his life. 

The thought of demanding her to come back, to sort everything out, get all the answers she kept hidden - it permeated through him so deeply he didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep.

He was in Hogsmeade, his heart sinking because it was decimated. The buildings razed and smoked in heaps, a strange crackling sound when embers hit the coating of snow on the grounds. His cloak was dark as night, thick and flowing to his dragonhide boots that crunched down the array of pure white as he strode through the empty village. 

His limbs grew heavier as though he was wading through water, nearing the center of destruction, and a body seemingly unharmed in the midst of it all. He stood next to her suddenly, his robes brushing her own grey ones, soaked in melting snow. Macaria’s inky hair splayed out amongst the uncovered dirt and rubble surrounding her like a crown. 

Her skin was whiter than his own, lost all traces of life, and looked most like a blank canvas. Her eyes were closed, and if he was really fooling himself, she was simply asleep. 

Draco knelt down to her, a chill raced up his spine, and pressed his fingers to her neck, only feeling the echo of his own pulse. He tilted her head up towards him, the iced nature of her skin sunk into his bones. He no longer felt sluggish, but he couldn’t recall from where the deja vu was coiling. 

It was then he noticed the torn up sleeve of her left arm, the fingernails of her right caked with blood and torn flesh, as if she had scratched her way through the fabric. He gently pushed the tatters away and nearly dropped the limb at the sight of a mangled Dark Mark. 

The expansive wound was staunched, her veins no longer pushing scarlet through it, but the ink was haunting against her blanched skin. 

_ Oh, God, what have you done? _

He lifted the sleeve of his own arm, dropping her wrist back to the soil as he noticed his own mark was absent. It wasn’t covered, it was simply gone. 

Macaria’s fingers twitched around empty air and he nearly stumbled backwards. She suddenly rose to face him, eyes clouded over and the bright vermillion replaced by a heathered blue. 

“Why did you do this to me?” She rasped, grabbing fistfuls of his cloak. He shook his head, panting as his body began to feel detached. Her hands fell away as he turned into black smoke. 

Draco woke with a start to a despairingly quiet bedroom, struggling to remember where and when he was for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

The bed was undisturbed next to him and he fell back into the pillows, almost wishing he weren’t alone. 

At least to confirm his nightmare wasn’t real.

But his mark was beginning to burn.

-

“I want to help.”

Macaria almost snorted, “you always do.”

“You don’t get called a swot every day of your life without sticking your nose in people’s business first,” Hermione smiled, dropping the expression after a moment. “I think you should draw them out.”

“You mean use Draco as bait?” She rolled her eyes. “As if. We have no idea how many of them there are, the idea was to not get him killed.”

“Not necessarily,” she shifted on her feet. “Throw some information to the wind and see who bites. You could get an advantage on them, see how close they are, and then you might have to relocate.”

“No.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. “No?”

“We are safe at the moment. I am not going to jeopardize that. It is complicated enough keeping ourselves concealed as it is,” her gaze tightened on the bright witch. “Is your next idea joining hands and walking into the British ministry for protection?”

“Considering how quickly they found the safehouse I’d bet M.A.C.U.S.A. would be a better alternative, despite their prevalence for doing absolutely nothing,” she scoffed, matching the dry tone. “My other plan involves swaying two stubborn idiots into accepting help.”

“Ron and Harry stop listening to you again?”

Hermione sighed and hid a twitch of a grin, “I know you can’t get into any government

building with him to get portkeys and considering how any owl directed towards you two has been flying in circles, you’ve done something to hide your magical signature?” Macaria simply raised a brow in response. Hermione continued. “As much as I want to ask about that - I don’t think it’s a mob after him.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Not exactly, but the anti-Death Eaters haven’t done much beyond trash a few storefronts and make a fuss in the press. They haven’t even claimed responsibility for the disappearances. I think it’s a farce,” she shrugged resignedly, “Malfoy has had a target on his back since he failed to kill Dumbledore. He’s made quite a few enemies since then.”

“You think it’s a Voldemort sympathizer?” Her thoughts began to swirl, too conflicting for the late hour.

“It wouldn’t surprise me is all I’m saying,” she glanced at her watch. “I need to go. If I learn anything else, I’ll find you.”

“Wait-” Macaria reached out to the other witch’s wrist as she pulled out her wand. “I’m sorry. For leaving so suddenly. His trial was...a lot, and I couldn’t just-”

“It’s okay, I understand,” she looked earnestly at Macaria. “I don’t understand why you feel the way you do about him, but I can empathize. Fred worries about you, though.”

Macaria hated the blush fighting its way up her skin. 

“I’ll always worry about him. In that shop with George. I’m not sure they’ll ever be far from trouble,” she suddenly felt flustered and insecure in her words. 

She had spent years undoing the web of her first love. Being near him when Draco was so far hadn’t helped much. She could never tell what was new and what was residual around Fred. 

She did know that as safe as he was, as much as he would always love and care for her in some way, it didn’t light a fire the way Draco did. Her breath would always catch and her pulse raced anytime Draco touched her, and God forbid he actually kissed her. 

Hermione seemed to search her eyes for something, gently removing herself from Macaria’s grasp as it softened. She nodded to herself and disapparated.

Macaria hoped the thunder would cover the sound.


	9. Chapter Nine

_ Then _

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No, shut up. They’ll hear us,” Draco shoved his shoulder back into Theo’s chest, which was far too encroached into his personal space for his liking. The group of Death Eaters in the Manor’s drawing room were having a hushed and agitated conversation, of which his recently recovered father was at the center. Theo’s father was beyond their line of sight from the gap in the door, but his low, croaking voice was distinct enough to carry. 

“I don’t care that he is your only son, he has never risen to his role, he has never bested anyone in any subject,” Dolohov’s rolling timbre was factual and Draco felt the sting in his words. “Heir or not, we should prepare Nott’s boy to take up the mantle.”

“Draco can and will do as asked. I have no doubts in his commitment to the cause,” Lucius Malfoy stepped toward a nonplussed Dolohov. 

“He’ll be far less useful if the Mark burns him from the inside out,” Dolohov narrowed his eyes. “Should he fail - oh, that’ll be far worse than being a sympathizer.”

“The Dark Lord’s faith is not misplaced,” the elder Nott rasped. “Though, to have my son Marked would only be moving along the inevitable. I know he will succeed in his promises.”

Draco looked over to his wide-eyed companion, who’s face had gone nearly as starched as his own. Theo didn’t seem to notice his stare, expression turning blank as his own walls went into place. 

“They both will,” Lucius assured. “Theodore was bound with every risk in mind. Draco doesn’t need so much oversight. When they return to school, his adeptness will prove it.”

The group moved to disband and the boys muffled their footsteps as they sprinted to the alcove under the stairs. As the last gust of air from black robes passed them, Draco turned to his companion. 

“Did you take a vow?”

Theo just looked at him.

“Who was it with?”

His jaw tensed.

  
  


_ Now _

  
  


Draco woke to the sight of a flustered witch tying off shrunken parchments to an owl’s leg.

Her dark hair was tied up in a chaotic and wavy ponytail, quietly striking in a navy blue summer dress, spotted with delicate flowers. She didn’t seem to notice his staring, or that he was even awake, simply fumbling through piles of parchment as the owl flew off. 

The morning light was quickly becoming obscured by roiling clouds, a low pulse of thunder settling through the calm streets. The previous night’s papers sat discarded on the window seat and he thought about asking for them, but his body was content.

His hand slipped under the sheet, to the other side where he felt a lingering warmth. 

Draco hissed out a breath as his left arm began to ache sharply, Macaria’s head turned toward him, an unusually clear expression of concern on her face. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, sitting up in the tangle of sheets. She crossed the room to him, kneeling on the bed and gently taking his arm in delicate hands. He didn’t resist. 

He half expected to see the ink and skin torn to shreds, but she was not Marked and never had been.

His own forearm was reddening in thin lines, much like when the tattoo had first settled, but showed nothing of the pain beyond that. 

“I thought it’d last longer,” she mused. One hand slowly moved to his wrist, her thumb at the juncture between his own and his forefinger. Sliding gently over his open palm. 

“So when are you going back to Weasley?”

He wanted to slap the words back into his mouth. Her hands fell away and she stepped off the bed, huffing out a laugh.

“You really have a knack for ruining moments,” she shook her head, digging through her purse on the dresser. 

He decided to push his luck, stood in her space as he dug out fresh clothes from the drawers. Casting nonverbal charms on his teeth and straightening his mussed hair. 

“If I’ve got such limited time, I don’t see why I can’t ask the important questions,” he sneered, inches away from the side of her face. She ignored his closeness, but he didn’t miss the slight shiver. 

“You could be stuck here for months. Are you sure you want to waste that opportunity now?” She jived back at him. 

“I’ll enjoy every moment he spends waiting,” he looked down his nose at her as he pulled a t-shirt over his head, muggle denims hanging low on his sinewy hips. 

“Believe it or not I am not defined by the men in my life,” she threw her bag over her shoulder and marched from the room. He narrowed his eyes, shoving his wand in his pocket and followed her down the hall.

“Where are you going?” He nearly ducked as she pointed her wand over her shoulder at him, sending glamours, and he wanted to retch at the sight of freckles on his arms. 

“That wasn’t an invitation,” she kept on down the stairs, newly blonde, and into the shop. Athalie was at the windows, putting items into crates, and looked surprised at the sight of them. 

“If you’re doing something to  _ help _ me I have a right to be there,” he said, knowing his argument was on a foundation of sand, but he didn’t know how to stop pushing the boundaries. 

“Do I need to call for your mother? She is much more adept at dealing with children,” she turned to him briefly, eyes a murky blue. He hated that he missed the green. 

He caught sight of his own bright blue eyes and ginger hair in one of the many mirrors in the shop, “oh, very fucking funny.”

Draco glanced around for any muggles, but the room was deadened, and he turned his hair to a cool brunette. 

Macaria reached for the door handle, silently unlocking it, and supremely ignoring the expression on Athalie’s face. 

“Have you looked outside?” Athalie sputtered and Draco glanced at the nearly-obsidian clouds above. 

“I’ve got my wand,” Macaria muttered, wrenching the door open and stepping out with Draco on her heels. 

“It’s a tropical storm you idiots!” He heard as the door closed, but Macaria continued on down the street. He saw the wind swirling up and rattling wrought iron fences, pounding a fierce rhythm against his eardrum, though he couldn’t feel it on his skin. He hadn’t cast anything and by the glint in her eyes, she knew it was the magic of the city keeping them from the elements. 

“Is this really worth not answering my question?” He shouted above the noise. 

“I don’t care about your question. I just wanted out and you followed me,” she turned down an alley leading toward the Garden District. He faltered in his steps, feeling indignant. 

“You never care to ask me anything.”

“What would you tell me that I don’t already know about you?” 

“Oh, please-”

“Spoiled, rich, know-it-all brat with an ego that could rival a king!” She picked up her pace as rain began splattering on the sidewalk and he kept up with her pace through the root-shattered cement. “Oh there is that superiority complex, but I’m sure you knew about that one.”

“Can you still call me spoiled if I’ve spent a year in prison?” He scoffed, aggressively wiping away the few drops of rain hitting his cheek. 

As they rounded another corner, Draco caught sight of a Muggle diner being boarded up haphazardly. He saw a few patrons still inside, looking up at the sky with wearied expressions. 

He followed their gaze as the storm seemed to totally descend upon them, thunder a deafening roar and the rain penetrating any natural shield. 

“Bright idea,” he turned toward her as she stopped in front of the restaurant. She looked back at the way they came, seeing severed branches fall into the path.

“Fuck, we can’t Apparate here,” she started to walk forward and the Muggles caught sight of her.

“Hey! Come inside you two!” A man of at least sixty with umber skin hollered at them, his tawny eyes kind and welcoming. When they failed to move, he beckoned them with his hand. “We’ve got a few stragglers in here to wait the storm out, shouldn’t be too long.”

“This is your fault,” Draco said close to her ear and pulled her across the street before she could protest. 

“I ask for an inch of space and the Gods send a fucking hurricane,” she glared at him with an intensity he almost missed. 

The man must have noticed their mutual disdain as a flicker of humor crossed his features once they were near enough for him to open the door. 

“We’ve got food cooking as long as the power is on,” his heavy southern accent flowed like honey, and Draco willed himself not to flinch as the man clapped a gentle hand on his shoulder, ushering them into the restaurant. “Just make yourselves at home.”

He looked around the place, feeling a swell of warmth at the soft light fixtures permeating over worn, vinyl booths. The walls were a soft sage, though the color was scarcely found by the hundreds of framed pictures and metal signs in French. The few other people in the building looked up on their arrival, but didn’t seem perturbed.

It was then Draco remembered the southern-American penchant for niceties. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing away some of the rain that had soaked in. Macaria strode to an empty booth, depositing her bag as she sat down and looked at him with an annoyed look about her eyes. He decided he didn’t like the blonde.

He sat across from her, resting his elbows on the table in a way his mother would chastise. 

“There are other empty tables,” she looked pointedly at him and raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, you’d really miss me then,” he crossed his arms and intended to leave it at that, but her stare did not let up. “Fine,” he heaved himself from the booth and moved to the one directly behind her, knowing the utter irritation it’d bring her. Maybe enjoying every second of it. 

Draco smirked to himself, allowing his gaze to wander to the gaps between boards on the window. It was so dim and desolate outside the building that it appeared to be the middle of the night, though it was early afternoon.

He thought about escaping through a backdoor to find somewhere to Apparate, but the thought of attracting any unwanted attention pestered the logical part of his brain. Perhaps being in proximity to Macaria, less than a foot between the backs of their heads, was enough to satiate the more immature part of him.

The part that wanted to affect her, to make her feel something towards him. 

Even if it hurt. 

-

Macaria thought the table might catch fire by how hard she was glaring at it. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder, the russet-brown skin worn from too many years of hard work. She glanced up to see a kind smile on a woman at least thirty years her senior. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m no ghost, no need to get so frightened,” the woman chuckled, fingers squeezing briefly in a familiar touch before pulling away. Macaria blushed at the tease, her hands fiddling in her lap. “Would you like something to eat? A tiny thing like you needs a full meal.”

“I couldn’t. I, um-” She started, hyper-aware that Draco could hear everything. 

_ Snarky bastard. _

“It’s on the house. Food will spoil anyway,” she gave a look to the boy behind Macaria and leaned a bit closer. “You’ll need your energy up to wrangle with him later.” She winked and glanced knowingly at Draco again before stepping toward the kitchen doors. Macaria played with the neckline of her dress, peeling the damp fabric away from her collarbone. 

The thunder struck so loudly that the tables rattled in place, a persistent ring hung in the air as if a gun had been fired. She didn’t realize she had grasped the edge of it until the ache shot up to her elbow and she let her hands fall away. She took a shuddering breath, willing away the thoughts of battle that sprung from their hiding place at the sound.

Her Occlumency was weak, only having learned it at her mother’s behest, and her father didn’t want to hurt her during the process. She barely had a hang on keeping boxes closed, but her ability to project was quite unprecedented. She knew she could overwhelm an average Legilimens’ mind with any memory she chose.

She endured every emotion Draco felt when she had projected to him. How angry, how confused, how utterly resentful he was toward her. 

It was affirming, in a way. She knew that she could let him go. He’d never want her after seeing all that she had done behind his back. All the things she continued to keep from him. 

She didn’t know how to trust him and she couldn’t conceive of a way for him to return it if she did. 

She had to let him go.

  
  


-

  
  


Draco had a hundred remarks he wanted to throw over his shoulder, but as his stomach gave a painful tug when a burger and chips was set in front of him, he forgot anything else in the world.

He politely smiled at the woman who gave him the plate who had a twisted expression, like she wanted to say something, but she simply nodded to herself and retreated. 

As much as he pushed the thoughts away, the image of her dead in Hogsmeade and the sight of himself in the battle - looking as though he wanted to kill her - were burned into the backs of his eyelids. 

_ Why did you do this to me? _

The burger gone and chips half eaten, he pushed the plate away from him and tried to settle his mind. It had been a long time since a nightmare had affected him so much. 

He knew the Marked version of her would never have existed. That it was a reflection of himself, but he couldn’t chase away the idea that she might have - or even still had the chance to die because of him. If the anti-Death Eater initiative had their way, she’d be strung up beside him. 

He wanted to hate his mother for getting her involved. For her devotion to him above anything else - even the cost of a young girl who might’ve cared for him once. 

He wasn’t sure which bout of guilt would overwhelm him first. 

-

  
  


Macaria was itching to leave. 

To do more than push the remaining food around her plate. Demand he be honest with her or tell him to go fuck himself. 

The minutes of quiet between the pair were louder than the storm or the din of the other

people around them. She wondered if they were judging them. Thinking it was simply a lover’s quarrel leading to them sitting apart. That eventually he’d apologize and sit with her again, smile at her like he loved her. Like he was glad to be rid of the hostility. 

She decided she wouldn’t break the silence first. He was the one who wouldn’t let her be-

“The answer is no.”

Macaria nearly slapped her palm into her forehead. His sudden stillness behind her was excruciating as her heartbeat, praying the rolling thunder was consistent enough to hide that she had spoken at all.

“I believe it was a matter of when,” he said after a moment, tone even and flat. 

“I believe it was a matter of shoving it up your ass, actually,” she bit back a grin and

didn’t miss his exasperated release of breath. “Pansy waiting on your gallant return?”

He snorted. 

“If I see her before I’m on my deathbed, it will be too soon.”

“That can be arranged,” she felt some of her old self leaking into her voice. She leaned into her hands on the table, desperate to be rid of the tension, and hating the familiarity within it. 

He was quiet again, contemplative, if she risked a glance behind her. 

“What will you do...once this is over with?” 

A board was ripped off of the window then, the darkness within the restaurant seemed to multiply as a hush fell over the patrons. Most of them looked toward it, but not much was visible beyond the blur of rain coating the glass. 

“Nothing to worry about, folks,” the older man who had ushered them into the joint said from near the door, far from Macaria and Draco. The conversations resumed even as the lights flickered every few seconds before going out entirely. 

If she had chanced a look at Draco, she’d have seen him flinch.

“I don’t believe that is any of your concern.”

“If you weren’t so damn cagey, I don’t think we would have nearly as many issues as we do,” he huffed.

“There is no ‘we’ to have any issues,” she resumed scowling at the table. “And I’m not ‘cagey’, I just don’t feel the need to share every thought that comes to mind.”

“Oh, please. You’ve got one friend because somehow she can stand talking to a brick wall.”

She squared her jaw, knowing she should bite her tongue…

“At least mine aren’t convicted Death Eaters.”

“You still fucked one.”

She slammed her fist into the table top, blood boiling, and uncaring of the attention on them. 

“It was just pity.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” he hissed, almost looking over his shoulder. “It could’ve been pity on my end, though, since no one else would fucking touch you. Except for a Weasel, of course. But they’re blood traitors, so he could stand to have people know about it.”

“You still can’t get over the idea. That someone else could want me. Even after you tossed it away for a cell,” she finally turned her head toward him, looking at his pointed profile sidelong. “You think I’ve got a hero complex and yet all you do is put yourself in a position for someone else to get you out of it. I’ve just been stupid enough to fall for it over and over again.”

He stood up suddenly and stalked across the restaurant, toward a back hallway.

Macaria decided the last word wasn’t enough and followed him.

Draco strode beyond the washrooms, the hall nearly pitch black until a flash of lightning showed the entrance to a storage room. He walked into it, stopping in front of the boarded up door and crossing his arms. His shoulders tensed as she locked the door behind them. 

“I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m going to take my chances back in Britain,” he glowered at the water sliding down the windows. 

“Did I really bruise your ego that much?” She gave a disbelieving laugh and he continued to stew. “Fine. Go. I’m sure the ministry will be happy to have you.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” He turned, closing the distance between them. “You’ve been such a bitch-”

“ _ I’ve _ been- God, look who’s talking! You’re the one who can’t get over the fact that I dated someone else before we were ever fooling around!” She stuck a finger against his chest, putting an extra inch between their faces. His eyes icy and narrowed, jaw so tight she thought he might pull a muscle.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he crowded her against the wall, her palm pushing hard into his sternum. 

“Or what? Your reputation will be ruined by the loser half-blood? I assure you that this little black spot on your record is the least of your worries.”

“You’ve made it your imperative to be involved and I can’t seem to shake you. It’s been  _ years _ since I bothered to waste any time shagging you and you’re still fucking smitten,” he bared his teeth wolfishly. “And now, you’re saying that I’ve ruined what self worth you had, but it’s not like I fucking forced you to meet with me.”

She felt her face heat, “I didn’t let you ruin my self worth, asshole. You just decided to take over my life when you pleased and then just left it when it wasn’t convenient anymore.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “Do you want me to apologize? Beg for forgiveness? I don’t remember hearing a ‘thank you’ for saving your boyfriend either? I should’ve just let that Death Eater have him. Maybe then you’d finally leave me the fuck alone.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“How about this? I’ll get my ticket out of here and you can just go back to whatever it is you do without me in your life,” his gaze burned into hers, “since you’re so keen on figuring out who that is, you’ll get to have the rest of it to do just that.”

“Are you really so spiteful?” She shook her head. “Becoming some martyr for troubled boys because you couldn’t own up to what you’ve done.”

“I did my owning up, but excuse me for trying to process the fact that my mother has made it her mission to involve herself in my so-called relationship to the point that she fucking  _ bought _ you in an attempt to keep me alive,” he sneered, planting his hand firmly into the wall next to her head, leaning his face close to punctuate every venom-laced word. “Forgive me if I’m having trouble with the idea that you’re nothing but a toy.”

“I didn’t-”

“You are actually going to deny it? My family’s got the biggest fucking vault and you didn’t even take a sickle?” He scoffed and her pulse thrummed, skin on her cheeks flushing a dull rose. 

“I didn’t accept a damn thing,” she matched his scowl. “It didn’t matter what she offered. I don’t care about money and I like what I do.”

“Then why-”

“Because it’s you,” she rushed out, willing away all her defenses. “It’s always been you.”

His eyes hardened and she was afraid to look anywhere else. She knew things weren’t perfect and that she needed so much more to begin again.

But she was tired of hiding in the shadows.

“Say it,” he said, quietly with an edge that threatened anything in his path should she dare to lie to him.

“Say what?”

“Say what you mean, for once, Macaria,” he shook his head slowly, looking down at the hand relaxed on his chest. 

“I want you.”

He closed the distance between them, her fingers moving to tangle in his hair as his lips met hers. The pressure was nearly bruising, the want and need between the two of them devastating all reservations. 

“I’m sorry,” he broke the kiss after a moment, pressing the bridge of his nose into her neck briefly before trailing back up to her temple. “Gods...I’ll never stop being sorry.”

“I know,” she smirked, though she knew he saw the glint in her eyes, telling him everything he needed to know. 

The storm outside descended further, lightning strikes picking up frequency as the rain whipped against the windows nearest them. 

Draco gripped the sides of her face, pulling her into a heated kiss, parting her thighs with his own to press into her. She pulled away again and he looked as though he was waiting for her to shove him into the storm.

“I just want to see you,” she murmured, wandlessly undoing the glamours on them both. His mouth quirked, like he was fighting a smile, before he took her hairband out - sliding one hand into the inky waves. 

She glanced to his grey eyes, a swell of longing built in her gut from how much she missed when he looked at her that way. Like there was no one else he’d ever let get that close to him. His white-blond hair glowed in the low light of the storm, illuminating the blush crawling up his neck and the rose in his lips.

He kissed her softly once, twice, before surging forward. His fingers trailed down the length of her body, hooking under her knees to wrap her legs around his waist. She attacked his neck, biting at his pulse points and running her nails over his scalp until he gave a low groan from deep within his chest. 

“Fuck…” He ground against her, settling his hands at her hips, under the thin fabric of the dress and letting his thumbs graze the waistband of her underwear. “Can I?”

She bit at her lower lip and nodded, pulling his mouth back to hers and losing herself in every hot, wet swipe of his tongue. The humidity felt sweltering in the small room, her dress sticking to her skin and his body heat wasn’t helping, but she didn’t mind. 

His long fingers pushed aside the flimsy material, teasing the bundle of nerves in time with the movements of his mouth. She felt his urgency grow with each moment, a sharp pang of desire at every touch, gasping as she felt his own arousal harden. She was tired of waiting, of his vexing motions, and pulled the button and zipper of his trousers down as he muttered something along the lines of “ _ Oh fuck yes. _ ”

A barrage of thunder rolled overhead, the walls vibrating from the force of it, but he just smiled and sighed as her hand encircled him. He pushed his boxer-briefs down his hips, brushing his nose against hers and waiting for that final nod.

He stilled as he pushed inside her, releasing a shaky breath, “sorry, it’s been a long time.”

“Join the club,” she muttered, grabbing a fistful of his hair and exposing his neck littered in bruises as he began to move at a torturous pace. She gasped when he drove in to the hilt, her thighs tightening around him, and he pulled out slowly to repeat it - until she went mad, she figured. “You’re playing with fire, Malfoy.”

“It’s what I do best,” he smirked and revived his pace, one hand reaching for her throat to gently grip the sides, the other stretched out on the bare skin of her waist. His thumb drew punishing shapes against her center until her vision went white, shaking and pressing down on him as he fucked her into the wall. “Had enough of me, yet?”

She rolled her eyes, muffling a keening noise against his shoulder, his hips became relentless. He used the hand on her neck to guide their lips together, enjoying the sting of his teeth as he bit into her. 

The room suddenly went to a blinding shade of white from nearby lightning, the sound covering up the string of curses he released into her ear as his pace stuttered. He panted against her for a few moments, sinking to the floor as his strength faltered them into a tangle of limbs. 

She chuckled into his hairline, knees on either side of his on the hardwood, smoothing away his sweat-soaked locks. 

He shifted slightly, looking up into her forest-green eyes, with an almost innocent expression. 

“What happens now?” He nearly whispered, arms belting around her middle. 

“We survive this shit.”


	10. Chapter Ten

_ Now _

The storm passed after a few hours, electricity flickering in and out, enough to steal the attention away from the couple that were sitting together again after their somewhat brief disappearance. 

Draco looked at Macaria’s relaxed expression, lips barely containing his smirk. They had nearly forgotten to return their glamours, Draco needing quite a few more on his neck - much to his chagrin that she had covered them at all. 

They walked in companionable silence, taking a slightly longer route back toward the shop. The rain still hung in the evening air like a damp smoke, though much of the heat was whittled away, and it was simply at a calm in the city. Macaria had wandlessly moved fallen trees or branches from houses where she could, though the inhabitants were often already outside to do the job themselves. Draco observed, fascinated with her seemingly effortless ability for wandless and nonverbal, especially in the act of moving such a massive object in some cases. 

“Can I ask you something?” He said as she cleared half an awning from the sidewalk, already doubting his query. 

“I suppose,” she kept her gaze elsewhere, looking for more debris. He rolled his eyes at her trepidation, figuring it was progress from the usual shut-down. 

“When we did that ritual...well, before it, actually,” he hesitated, testing the weight of his words. “What was it that you experienced?”

“I told you then, didn’t I?” She looked slightly bemused, despite the dark topic.

“Not specifically,” he muttered, beginning to wonder if that was how a conversation with himself felt. 

“I’ve thought about it since then. I think it was the most one can experience in death without actually dying. I’m not sure what curse or spell she used - it’s probably outside of the wizarding norm entirely - but it took my most primal fears and made me experience them until there was just nothing,” she supplied, exhaling slowly. “Why?”

“It was terrifying to watch,” he snorted and felt that residual pang of guilt in his stomach. 

“I’m not keen on proving my worth like that again anytime soon, so please refrain from joining any new organisations for awhile,” she smirked at him and he bit back a grin.

“No promises. This whole anti-Death Eater thing is quite enticing.  _ Hey- _ ” He gasped, offended as she punched him in the arm. “No need for violence.”

“Prat.”

It was quiet for a moment then and Draco looked over her face, the indecision in her eyes and the tension in her mouth. It was subtle, but he was beginning to learn her again. 

“There’s something I should tell you,” she started, sucking in a deep breath. She stopped her pace on the sidewalk, looking up at him with those green eyes he’d never gotten out of his mind. Always roiled with her conundrum of secrets in blatant honesty. Selective truths, he’d realized years ago. 

His brow furrowed as her silence lingered, building up a resounding dread in his gut. He was so focused on her expression that her slight glance behind him pushed everything into slow motion. 

Her hand gripped his left shoulder, pushing him away as he heard the collision of a large rock into a body. His vision snapped to the fallen body not more than a few meters away, unconscious with a wand in a loose grip. 

“ _ Ante mortem defectum! _ ” Another voice to his right called out, that same blank stare in different eyes as the man approached, wand twisting in a familiar bolt. “ _ Av- _ ”

Macaria reached around him, a curse heading straight to the man’s chest, distracting him enough to throw up a shield. Draco pulled out his own wand, the hilt warming to his touch as he threw a jinx to the man, Macaria silently doing the same. 

He knew that phrase. From more than when the stranger attacked him on the balcony.

It was in his initiation for the Dark Mark. 

She shrieked suddenly, turning as she collapsed onto her knees with blood spilling out of a slice on her thigh. A third man had appeared behind them, the devoid expression just as haunting in each of them. He threw up a hasty shield, ducking from another killing curse. 

Macaria’s one hand pressed over her wound, staunching the scarlet flow, though it dripped to the broken sidewalk beneath them all the same. She cast curse after curse and he could feel his vision becoming dizzy, his wand sliding through his fingers. 

He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he couldn’t string together a few words, let alone recall an incantation. In his haze, he felt her gasp as she looked over him, his name on her lips as more of the strangers closed in. Their features morphed into one familiar face, but he couldn’t tell if it was real. 

His body felt as though it became twice as dense, sinking into the Earth as the pain finally revealed itself on the back of his neck. A curse to make him sluggish? His eyelids fell shut more than a few times, meeting her terrified green ones briefly, before it all went dark.

He heard her scream. A flash of purple beyond the pitch.

Ante mortem defectum.

_ Death before failure.  _

  
  


_ Then _

  
  


If it was any consolation to himself, to his moral superiority, the trembling in his fingers refused to cease. 

He wished he could have put up his walls, wished away his emotions as he stared into the kind blue eyes of his headmaster in the Astronomy tower. 

He knew the words were true. He had plenty of chances to go through with it - hell if he were a bolder man he would have made a cheap shot any point before then. 

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. 

His wand hand fell to his side as Snape appeared behind him, some abatement in the mind of a scared little boy.

-

_ “For Gods’ sake tie her down!” _

-

His aunt’s strangling grip on his collar blocked many sights out from his gaze, but not that of the body at the base of the Astronomy tower. Beyond the resounding guilt, his body was beginning to become paralyzed in fear. 

Beyond the whipping wind, he only heard the screams of terrified students within the castle as more Death Eaters descended upon them.

It wasn’t until he was Apparated back into the Manor, standing directly in front of the Dark Lord, that his walls went back in place. Brick by brick and so intent he thought he might snap a tendon in his neck.

His eyes were dragged up by an icy hand under his jaw, the jagged nails catching and drawing blood as he met the cold glare of Voldemort. 

“You disappoint me, yet again, young Malfoy.”

-

_ “I don’t care how many times you have to stun her!” _

_ “She keeps waking out of it! I don’t know how-” _

_ “I’ll fucking take care of it then.” _

-

  
  


He lost count of how many times the Unforgivable had left the Dark Lord’s mouth. 

He wished he was dead.

He felt every nerve ending relight with each twist of the wicked man’s wrist. The edges of his tongue in ruins from his molars clamping down on it to resist screaming.

It was futile. He was choking and coughing up blood, curled up on his side and grasping at his middle. 

His brain became so muddled by the curse that he could no longer tell what shrieks were his own and his mother’s. Narcissa was inconsolable, restrained by a worse for wear Lucius, who looked coldly at his son writhing on the fine marble floor.

  
  


-

_ “She’s giving them hell, you know...I’ll bet you taught her those tricks…put a nightmare so bad in his head he passed out…” _

-

  
  


The stuttered movement in the ceiling and choking grip on his collar had him gasping for breath as he felt himself being dragged away. For a moment, he thought it was his Aunt Bella pushing him through the Hogwarts grounds - then the memory hit him before he could block it out. His body ached in every pull, wondering why they didn’t just levitate him. 

Too easy, he figured.

His shoulders hit the hard floor and he expected the thump of his skull, but a hand softened the blow. Eyes focusing and unfocusing, landing on a familiar pair that he couldn’t quite place in the moment. 

“Theo…?” He choked on the name, his throat burning with each rush of air. He had never felt so defeated.

“Still in there?” The other boy quirked a smile. “Had me worried. Thought you might be on whatever Loony Lovegood puts in her tea.”

He huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a pained wheeze. 

The door from down the hall creaked open and shut delicately, a proud and quiet click of dragonhide boots echoing through the Manor.

“I’m surprised he wasn’t fed to the snake,” Lucius drawled, the end of his cane prodding Draco’s jaw to tilt toward him. 

“Does-does this-” Theo started, his head whipping to the side as Lucius struck him with the cane.

“Do not speak out of turn,” he hissed, a warning in his cold glare. “Ensure he recovers. Out of sight.”

Theo watched Lucius walk back the way he came, his cheekbone blooming to scarlet and mouth in a hard line. He glanced over Draco again, who was feeling the tethers of unconsciousness latch to the ends of his mind when Theo began to levitate him. 

The next thing he knew, he was in the silky confines of his bed. Theo stood by his bed, fidgeting with his wand in hand. 

“What do I do?” He whispered. “I don’t know what to do, Draco.”

“Make sure,” he inhaled slowly. “My mother gets out. I don’t care about the rest.” 

“I will,” he gently placed his hand on Draco’s wrist. “Do you think he’s going to kill you?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” his gaze flickered to the ceiling, nearly missing the twitch of stress lines in the other boy’s face. 

Theo almost looked relieved.

  
  


_ Now _

  
  


A sharp dryness invaded his senses, sending a scorching breath through his nostrils, and a nauseating difference from the habitually humid air. He was dimly aware of the fact that his wrists and ankles were bound to the arms and legs of a chair, a Muggle rope blistering his skin with every twitch. His neck ached from his head hanging forward, an even more intense pain from a suspected curse at the nape. 

Draco’s eyes opened to the sight of a dirt floor, not as muddied as he expected, and he wondered whether or not they were still in Louisiana. He looked to his left arm where the faint lines of the Mark were beginning to swell with ink into his skin again. It burned worse than it had when it began to bubble over, and about as bad as when he had first gotten it. 

“Awake, then? Your girlfriend over there hasn’t been able to shut her damn mouth,” a familiar lilt from a few meters away huffed. “A feral dog, that one.”

He let his gaze wander up to the man, smoothing over his features, and smirking at the site of a gash on his forehead. 

Gregory Goyle met his stare, narrowing his mouth into a sneer. 

“What are you happy about, blood-traitor?” He held up his wand to Draco’s face, thick fingers tense around the implement. 

“Did you have a good dream?” 

Goyle let confusion wash over his expression before the skin around his eyes tightened again.

“Shut up!” 

“You know we lost, right? The Dark Lord is dead,” he shook his head, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth. “How much did they pay you, Goyle?”

“I volunteered.”

“Well, then you’re even more of an idiot than I pegged you for-”

“I should kill you right now.”

“You should have already,” he muttered. 

“Not my job,” he looked pleased with himself. Draco wondered how much resentment the boy held for their formative years, ordering him and Crabbe around like dogs until he’d had enough of them. 

“Someone else taking the honor then?” He scoffed, pushing away his worry for the witch and evaluating his surroundings. The room was small and devoid of anything but himself and Goyle who stood in front of a door, made of aged wood panels. A slight breeze whistled through the gaps, sending a chill over his bare arms. 

He reached within himself for his wandless magic, but his core felt weak and dormant. He couldn’t have possibly exhausted it with one duel?

He thought about setting fire to the ropes, but he was wary of his control of it. 

“It would be an honor to do in someone like you…” he trailed off, grip faltering on his wand as a flicker of bewilderment filled his eyes before they went completely blank.

Draco’s whole body tensed at the sight, knowing the inevitable was about to happen. He’d die in this shack and never be found. He’d just be another name on the list of Death Eaters to go missing and presumed dead. 

All the parts of himself he pushed away came flooding back to his mind and overwhelmingly - the worry for his witch - wherever she was. His mother, praying to any deity that she was safe and put even a modicum of effort into hiding herself as she did for her son. 

Goyle’s body dropped like a stone, mirroring the scrape on his forehead. He flinched and twisted, provoking a grim smile on Draco’s face as he appeared to be in a traumatic nightmare.

After a few minutes, Goyle groaned into the soil, half-conscious and in no rush to return to his feet. Draco sighed at the pathetic sight and returned to focusing on bringing about his magic again, meeting yet another brick wall. 

Panic began to set in. He didn’t want to die and certainly not by Goyle’s hand or anyone else’s. All the times he was within Death’s grip raced through his mind and he wasn’t ready to face it again. 

He wasn’t ready to run into the light.

The door opened a little, hindered by Goyle’s body lying in its path. A subtle flick of a wand and Goyle was flung across the space to the wall on Draco’s right. 

He wished he was more surprised to see Theodore Nott than he actually was. It didn’t stop the hurt all the same. 

The young man looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks, skin pallid and sallow. Draco figured he must have had quite a few glamours on at his mother’s gala.

“What are you doing?” Draco said quietly and pressed his lips together, fighting the hefty feeling of betrayal. He thought back to when his father had spoken to Theo like there was so much they couldn’t say around him. He hadn’t let it bother him then because he had enough weight on his shoulders already - he’d already faced the cost of his failures. 

“I was hoping you’d provoke him enough to try,” he said absently, casting a look to Goyle. “I’d guess you did it, but I know it was Lightlauder. I always caught her doing weird shit at school.”

“Why are we here?” He tried, but Theo seemed to ignore him again, stepping forward and not meeting his stare. 

“I’m out of time,” his posture sagged slightly. “I tried...I tried everything,” he shook his head rapidly, finally looking up with glistening eyes. “You-you know I did. You have to see that.”

“Just tell me-”

“No! You know I can’t. Come on, you’ve always known!” He was nearly pleading and the most openly emotional he had ever seen in his friend. “I’m s-” 

His jaw twitched, jerking sharply to the side as if slapped. He winced and swallowed, shuddering out a low breath. 

“I have to do this,” he raised his wand with a trembling hand. 

_ Or he’s going to kill me… _

“You don’t. The Dark Lord is dead. I’m sure the Vow is broken by that,” Draco rushed out, seeing the walls build in Theo’s mind.

“If it was, we wouldn’t be here,” he looked destitute and maybe he was allowing himself to feel everything as he killed his oldest friend. 

Draco flinched at a familiar sensation. The sudden intrusion of another voice in his head felt like smooth nails scraping up the side of his throat. A nearly teasing touch in the soft words. 

_ “Earth magic. Use it.” _

  
  



	11. Chapter Eleven

_ Now _

Macaria dove deeply into her own mind. Shutting away the crisp air, the unconscious young man across from her that she didn’t recognize, and allowing every murderous thought to rise to the surface. 

Her limbs felt light, drifting away from her body as she relaxed the tension in her muscles. Her head dipped slightly forward, her fingers falling slack against the arms of the chair. 

The thought of Hermione actually drawing out the attackers crossed her mind, but she didn’t think it would have gone to that extent. Given the group information to the point where they had apprehended the pair in the street. The unfortunate conclusion that Draco must have compromised it somehow.

She knew he couldn’t cast a patronus and if anyone that he surrounded himself with had tried - it’d be lost after their ritual. He had probably found the owlery in one of his dramatic episodes and sent a letter to his mother.

Maybe she should have been a little more honest with him. 

She put her thoughts on the one place she really felt at peace. The place she hadn’t even gotten to show him - wondered if she ever would. 

It was a quaint house where the soil was dry most days, hidden within an empyreal forest on the outskirts of the city. It had a gorgeous painting on the east side’s paneling, one she didn’t know the origin of, but she loved to gaze at it whenever near. They hadn’t gotten that far for a number of reasons.

Mostly, it was the one last thing she had to herself, and she didn’t know if she could share it with him. 

The faraway house was peaceful and it steadied her mind as she drew deeply into the Earth magic, feeling it strengthen beyond her magical core. It swirled and eclipsed the push of blood in her veins, singing like it did in Louisiana. She could feel that they were far from there, the cold an indicator alone, but the power from the Earth felt like an unfamiliar frequency. 

She could feel Draco’s presence. Close enough to try to communicate with him, push a thought his way if she focused intently enough. It was also strong enough to lift her out of most spells, slowing the bleeding from the gash on her thigh to a steady drip. The Earth’s magic was a pool that she wasn’t quite sure the breadth of, if it could wane from her use of it or not.

Narcissa really hadn’t told her enough about it.

She decided she’d actually be more forthcoming with Draco, provided they made it out of this shack. She had deduced that it really did have nothing to do with the Anti-Death Eaters. 

Hermione was right. As always. 

She couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t dead yet. Or why they hadn’t simply killed them on the street. Draco was hit with an unusual curse, knocking him unconscious before she was punched in the temple - distracted by his falling. Maybe their directions were muddled by several people being under the influence of the potion. If the mastermind was a singular person, perhaps they had overestimated the power of it.

_ Could they have been attempting to fail on purpose _ ?

Surely Draco would have mentioned someone from his past that he knew had a hit out on him, but the pair hadn’t exactly been on good footing for the few days of their reunification. He didn’t even seem keen on remaining out of harm’s way, but she liked to think she knew him better than that.

If anything, he’d do whatever he could to keep his mother safe. 

Macaria wished she had paid more attention during his trial, the discussions amongst tabloids and the public - maybe she would have more of a clue as to who had been behind it. 

She thought back to her conversations with Narcissa, placing herself in the memory as much as possible, and trying to decode her subtleties without the overwhelming anxiety at the time. She knew why there were tremors in the woman’s elegant hands, why she developed more stress lines in her face in a matter of months. 

Macaria pushed further, feeling the draw of magic at her fingertips, consuming as much as it gave. Her body felt weightless, her mind was free.

Until it dropped like a stone into the past. 

  
  


_ Then _

  
  


A waiter poured a fresh glass of water, ice clinking loudly in the silence between the two women. 

Macaria felt Narcissa’s appraising gaze. Her sharp blue eyes had not softened since they sat down for lunch in Muggle London, a second meeting where they both really knew why they were there in the first place.

The waiter nodded and left the table, Narcissa laid her napkin in her lap and straightened out her silverware. Macaria wanted to fidget, but thought better of it, taking a slow sip of her water and waiting for the other woman to speak.

“What are your intentions with my son?” She asked, finally, speaking with an even tone. 

“I’d say about the same as his for myself,” Macaria glanced at the other patrons, wondering how much Narcissa knew of their unconventional relationship. Or lack of one, considering he’d told her no more than a few weeks prior that he wanted nothing to do with her. Being sixteen was hard enough without the added pressure of pureblood practices. 

“I can read him quite well, as much as he likes to play his cards close to the vest,” Narcissa started, thoughtfully. “Lately, he has been different. Like he lost an outlet for his...frustrations,” she sighed as Macaria tried to fight the blush on her skin. “I worry for the time when he may become lost within himself.”

“I’m not sure how you expect me to help with that.”

“I do not expect you to do anything,” Narcissa eyed her again. 

“Then why am I here?” 

“I believe that you care for my son and he cares for you, more than either of you are willing to admit. I want to see that his happiness comes to fruition,” she smiled as if she couldn’t be doubted - as if there was nothing beyond her words left to discover. 

Macaria bit back a frown and left her expression neutral. She could feel in her bones that Narcissa didn’t care one way or another about her son’s love life. She saw an opportunity in the impressionable and worldly half-blood. Just pure enough to look legitimate. 

Narcissa Malfoy would do absolutely anything to save her son. 

“Wouldn’t this exchange be better suited for my parents? After all, it is traditional for all of the parents to meet before the courting process begins,” she couldn’t help but look down her nose in the best Pansy Parkinson impression she could muster. 

Narcissa’s careful expression seemed to crack slightly with a twitch about the mouth, her hands folding in her lap. Before she could respond, the waiter returned for their orders and Narcissa spoke for the both of them. Macaria simply closed her menu with a flourish and refused to break eye contact as she handed it to the poor man having to interrupt them. 

“I am afraid that meeting isn’t possible at the moment.”

“Why is that? My apologies - haven’t been keeping up with the Prophet,” Macaria raised a brow. Narcissa let the first genuine emotion cross her features as her jaw tensed. 

“I believe that in these uncertain times, an unconventional pairing is to be expected,” she pressed on, seemingly committed to her one way in.

“And what is the cost for a Malfoy heir?” Macaria said lowly, tired of her not-even-boyfriend’s family games.

The elder woman pursed her lips, looking out the window of the restaurant for a long moment. She quietly took a deep breath before meeting Macaria’s gaze again, much of the fervor devoid in her eyes. 

“Your whole life. That’s what it was for me, many years ago.”

“Why do you think I’d be inclined to give him that?”

“From what I have seen, you are an intelligent young woman with many paths ahead of you. One of those could be a quiet, remote life where you write stories or articles to your heart’s content and you have a husband who would be dedicated and living freely beyond unfair responsibilities.”

“A husband,” she huffed. “He is sixteen years old. How can you expect him to be unfailingly dedicated to someone for the rest of his life? He’s barely got a foot in the world as it is.”

“I know my son. A marriage bond will mean something to him and he has always known it is unlikely to be up to him as to who he marries. He will respect that decision regardless,” Narcissa paused as the salads were placed in front of them, waiting until the waiter was out of earshot to continue. “It would be a failsafe for you, in any circumstance.”

“I won’t force him to marry me.”

“You do not object to the lifestyle then?”

Macaria rolled her eyes, “do purebloods take classes in negotiation?” She refrained from repeating the gesture as Narcissa remained quiet, expectant. “He is unlikely to want anything to do with me.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” she delicately picked up the correct fork from the lineup, sounding as exasperated as she would allow. 

“You picked the outsider because no one would really miss them if they disappeared, correct?” Macaria saw the hesitation in her movements, the flash of uncertainty. “Flattering. Really,” a surge of irritation and offense ran through her system. “I am not something to be bought and sent away as a consolation prize for your son. I have hopes and dreams of my own. I have a life outside of what you’ve deigned to see out of convenience. I have a family who means everything to me.”

“Draco is  _ everything _ to me,” she narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know how else to say it. I want him to have a future beyond anything else.” She looked as though she was trying to solve an equation in her head, deciding on her next words carefully. “There are people close to him trying to ensure that he  _ doesn’t _ .”

Macaria’s mouth went dry, thoughts flitting between the lines. 

“I want you to save my son,” Narcissa said quietly. “He will be out of options. I can’t see him rot in Azkaban for being a boy sent down the wrong path.”

“Azkaban?” 

“Yes.”

Macaria looked at the untouched salad in front of her, feeling all too young for the conversation. All too weak for the direction her gut - or her heart if she was being honest - was pulling her toward. She wasn’t in love with him. He could be so many things that drove her insane, and generally, that was all he would show her. Though, she knew he was more than that - she saw it in how he interacted with people he trusted, his dedication to things he loved, and his fear of losing control.

“A quiet life.” She already thought of what she would tell her parents, how she could spin things. 

“You wouldn’t have to worry about money. I can have that figured out soon.”

“And if he doesn’t go with me? He decides he is better off with the risk?”

“I’m sure you will find a way to sway him.”

Narcissa didn’t have to say it. 

_ He dies. _

  
  


_ Now _

  
  


Macaria’s head whipped up, a gasp so sharp in her lungs it burned. The ropes on her wrists and ankles withered to ash as a surge of power rushed through her veins, sparking at her fingertips.

The hushed transfer of assets. The push for a marriage binding. 

She didn’t have to know who was out there to know exactly who was behind it. 

  
  


-

  
  


Draco felt something within him go cold.

Theo seemed to find his resolve, steeling his posture, and finally meeting Draco’s eyes. 

He didn’t know how to reach for the Earth magic or much of anything about it and he knew he was down to seconds. He closed his eyes and pushed all of his energy into breaking the binds, yelping as he felt a sudden sting in his left arm.

He looked down to see the familiar trail of an acid-like burn where his Mark should be, trailing down to his wrist and the warmth turned to a searing heat as it reached the rope. Theo looked startled and hesitated as the sight of all the ropes catching fire briefly before disintegrating. 

“What the fuck?” Theo was alert, glancing at the door behind him as if someone else had done it. Draco was entirely flummoxed for a moment, staring at his arms, not entirely believing that he had actually reached for the unfamiliar magic.

The door blew open then, his witch looking composed, if not exhausted, and her hand held in front of her.

“ _ Expelliarmus _ !” She seemed to command the Earth magic into familiar incantations, Theo’s wand flying into her ready fingers as he went white as a ghost. 

“You stupid bitch,” he shook his head, backing away and into the wall. Draco stood on unsteady legs, next to Macaria, and feeling some of his strength return as he leaned into the burning sensation that freed him. 

Macaria hit him with a body bind curse, crouching in front of him as he struggled against the ropes. The sorrow creased his eyes - a murky sense of disdain lingering on the edges.

“Tell him, Theo. Tell him what you did,” she pressed the tip of his wand under his chin, forcing his jaw up to look at Draco. “Tell him why you’re working with Lucius Malfoy.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“You know I can’t do that,” he sneered, breathing rapidly as the binds constricted his chest. His face heating from the exertion. 

“You can tell him what you did to try to kill him without getting your hands dirty,” she hissed, blood trickled down his throat at her next incantation.“ _ Defodio. _ ”

“Fine,” he spit, jerking his head away from her grasp. “Pansy’s dead.”

“Theo-” Draco started.

“The movement had unintended consequences,” he muttered, glaring at Macaria as she waved the wand near his face again. 

“What about the potions dealer?”

“Had him invent something discrete,” he shrugged. “I couldn’t- I didn’t want to do it.”

“Why? Why me?” Draco neared them.

“It is very specific, Draco,” Theo looked up at him, imploring. 

“You can say it,” Macaria pressed the point of the wand just below his jugular. “But only once.”

“I don’t have anyone left,” Theo kept his stare on Draco. “My father murdered my mother and then did away with his fortune before he was killed. Surely you can understand why I was the contingency plan,” he pressed his head into the wall as Macaria put more pressure on his skin. “The Mark wasn’t enough of a punishment.”

“It burned me because I didn’t do as the Dark Lord asked,” Draco inhaled sharply. “My father decided that wasn’t enough.”

“His devotion is eternal,” Theo looked thoughtful for a moment, his jaw twitching again as he seemed to fight against the constraints of the Vow. “He needed...he-”

“A new heir,” Draco shoved his palms into his eyes, ignoring the residing sting along his arm. 

“You tried to fail on purpose,” she added, wand hand lowering. “The potion would be faulty on more than one person. It was the attempt that mattered, wasn’t it? You tried to circumvent it.”

She looked to Draco then as his arms crossed across his chest. He felt the discomfort of anxiety in his gut, biting the inside of his cheek. The chill in the air seeped into his bones, goosebumps prickling along his skin as he tried to process all that he could.

Could he really blame Theo for being put in a compromising position as a teenager? 

Theo sagged against the wall, his breaths coming out in rasps as thin black lines traced the veins up his throat. A sad smile tugged at his lips and he gave a humorless laugh.

“When you’re tasked to murder your best friend and take his place like some goddamned puppet...there’s no getting out of it for me. I’ll give it to Lucius, there was nothing worse than that. I guess he underestimated his wife,” he looked pointedly at Macaria. “Make sure he can’t do it again.”

“Theo-” 

“I can’t undo what I’ve done. None of us can,” he grimaced before spitting a spray of red onto the dirt. “Great.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Draco kneeled in front of him as Macaria released the ropes on his body, his posture bowed immediately. “I can-”

“You figured it out. That means I was sloppy enough to make it happen,” his gaze followed the weary lines on Draco’s face, observing him with something like fondness. The ashen hue traveled up the column of his neck, staining up to his cheekbones. His final words were no more than a rush of air, eyes warmer than they’d ever been as he looked to his oldest friend, “ _ I’m sorry _ .”

Draco was struck with that odd stillness again. He’d so rarely felt it until the last few years of his life. The strange vacuum of space someone would leave behind when they were no longer there. 

He blinked, staring at the body in front of him, gone entirely grey as if he’d been set in stone. He flinched as Macaria set a gentle hand on his shoulder, murmuring something he couldn’t catch beyond the ringing in his ears. She stepped away for a few moments and came back, pressing his wand into his palm.

“We need to go,” she said softly, nimble fingers at his wrist, seeming to know in that strange way of her own what he could take in that moment. He nodded numbly, finally dragging his eyes away and leaning into her as he stood. The weariness in her green eyes shot straight to his gut - he couldn’t imagine how exhausted she must have been - and she was still keeping them going. She was still trying to save him.

“Stop,” he gripped her shoulders, shaking his head as she looked openly confused. “Stop doing this. I can-” He ignored the catch in his breath and the tremble in his hands. “I can take care of this.”

“Draco,” she whispered, brushing away the wetness on his cheek like one would to a fallen child. He was struck momentarily by how someone could be so gentle with him. “It’s out of our hands now. I broke the wards and cast a patronus. We don’t have to be here when the aurors arrive.” 

He nodded again, feeling sluggish as she tugged him out of the room, through a few dark hallways before out into the crisp and familiar English air. He felt her look at him again, asking if he was ready, and then lacing their fingers together to pull him into Apparation. 

Draco refused to stumble as he was led along, walking hand-in-hand with the girl that had risked everything for him, into the Ministry of Magic. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

_ Now _

Draco kept his head high, his hand firm in hers, and felt every inch of power within his being as he walked through the Atrium. Ministry workers noticed him quickly, stumbling out of the way as if his mere presence were parting the seas.

They gawked and stared - despite the grime in his hair, it was all too striking, and Macaria’s remarkable ability to shut someone up with a look - their shocked whispers still rang out in the large room. 

“Is that Draco Malfoy?”

“I thought he was dead!”

“Who’s that with him? Another Death Eater?”

“Malfoy!”

Draco’s brow furrowed, his steps faltering as they neared the elevators. The final voice was distinct and for a moment he was ready to fling a curse, seeing the bloke in the blasted spectacles making his way through the crowd.

“Harry,” Macaria remarked, looking as bewildered as he felt. 

“You should come with me,” Harry Potter himself beckoned, leading them toward a vacant elevator as a familiarly shrill reporter’s voice came closer and closer. As the lift doors closed on the three, an uncomfortable silence permeated over its screeching rails and sways. Potter unsubtly glanced over at them, shaking his head slightly.

It was then that Draco noticed the Auror’s uniform, the golden trimmings catching the light under his robes. For once, he felt a little less sophisticated as he looked down to the muddied t-shirt and denims. Macaria’s dress was a little worse for wear, though the continued trail of blood down her leg caught his eye and he bent to one knee next to her without a second thought. He missed the widening of her eyes as he pulled out his wand and muttered a healing incantation, the dried and fresh blood retreating back into the wound as it closed seamlessly. He stood up again and she took his hand, her other wrapping around his bicep as she leaned into him and seemed to take a steadying breath. 

“Macaria,” Potter broke the silence, nodding at her.

“Been awhile,” she offered him half a smile. He tapped his fingers against his robes for a few seconds. 

“I’m taking us up to the Minister. They were sending me out with the team that got your patronus, Macaria. I thought it’d be better if I caught you before the press did,” he shrugged. 

“Thanks,” Draco said dryly. 

“I’m not sure if you heard, but Parkinson-”

“I heard.”

“Alright,” the other green-eyed wizard muttered. 

Silence settled over the three of them again - as much as he wanted to talk to Macaria - he didn’t fancy the idea of that conversation happening in front of Potter. There was something about what Theo said that wasn’t adding up in his mind. 

The lift finally slowed to their destination, Potter exiting first down a hallway of expensive wood, to a door with a gold plate with its occupant’s designation. 

“Do you have an appointment?” A young secretary called from an open office next door, her resonance low and nearly bored. 

“I have Draco Malfoy with me.”

“ _ Oh- _ ”

“Does ‘The Boy-Who-Lived’ not work on them anymore?” Draco sighed as Potter snorted. 

The secretary fumbled around with some parchments for a moment, speaking into a direct line to the other office to alert Shacklebolt of their presence. Macaria shifted uncomfortably next to him and he was struck with the memory of her giving up Auror training and being tasked with protecting him by the Minister himself, not only his mother. 

The foreboding placard door opened quickly, the elder man allowing the mildest bit of surprise to settle over his features. 

“Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Lightlauder, Auror Potter,” he greeted them in turn, stepping aside in the entrance. “Come in. I believe we are due for a chat.”

Draco sat with Macaria on one of the two sofas facing each other in the middle of the large office. The Minister had the tea pour itself as Potter settled opposite them. 

He didn’t care to take in the interior of the place, but the constant awkwardness he was finding himself in let his eyes wander. The plaque for Order of Merlin, First Class stood out most notably on the wall behind a large mahogany desk. Below that, another certification for the Order of the Phoenix. 

The usual twinge of guilt following any memories from the war felt overshadowed for once. He felt the gentle prodding of her fingers on his hand, one he hadn’t realized was digging his nails into the mottled skin of his forearm. 

“I assume your reappearance is on the basis that you no longer feel your life is under threat?” Shacklebolt sat next to Potter, stirring sugar into his tea. Draco looked down at the steaming cups for a moment and then decided against it. Macaria didn’t seem to see the same moral dilemma in taking one, set about making her own. 

“Unless there are any more friends under a vow to kill me, the last would be sitting in Azkaban,” he drawled coolly. The Minister simply stared at him, imploring. “My father, of course, made his own arrangements during the war.”

“I see.”

“I want his sentencing reexamined,” Draco stated, his posture straightening. As a child, the thought of defying his father in any way would send him into a panic. Though, as a young man, knowing all too well what genuine fear felt like - what the real shadow of death could be, crawling over one’s mind - he knew he had to ask. 

“I’m sure you will find the Wizengamot to be agreeable, considering the circumstances,” he looked over Draco for a moment, appraising. “You have a right to request visitation with him, if you’d like.”

“I’ll consider it,” he exhaled, hating the stilted nature of the conversation. He didn’t miss how true Slytherins talked to each other. 

“If you don’t mind, I have a few questions about this last week.”

  
  


-

  
  


Draco was exhausted.

Not only did he explain all that he could, but he then had to go through it several more times with two Aurors. Macaria was able to fill in some gaps and able to avoid implicating herself or his mother in their retelling. She gave him a look before they were separated for interrogation, one that meant she had much more to tell him and him alone.

He sat on a bench outside the D.M.L.E. with a half empty black coffee in his hands, looking up every time the door opened. It was nearing midnight and he wondered where they - if they would even remain in each other’s company - would stay that night. He wasn’t sure he had the patience to deal with his mother or anything to do with the Manor. 

He leaned his head back, letting his eyes slip closed only to be suddenly jolted awake. He blinked, getting his bearings and finding the slightly amused expression on Macaria. She moved the now cold coffee out of his slightly tilted hand to the bench, sitting next to him.

“I believe we can leave for the night,” she started, an ease he hadn’t seen before in her green eyes. “If not, well I don’t really care.” She seemed to search his tired gaze for a second, a determined set about her lips. “Why don’t we get a hotel room?”

“That sounds lovely,” he stood, already dreaming of a shower. “Wait, do we have any money?” He hadn’t seen her purse since they left the restaurant.

“Turns out I am quite imaginative in my precautions,” she reached into a pocket on the dress that he never noticed, pulling out a few large American bills. “Hopefully they’ll take this.”

He took her free hand and gave it a squeeze, pulling her down the hall and far away from the droning Aurors.

  
  


-

  
  
  


“Macaria?”

“Yeah?”

Draco stepped out of the bathroom with a towel low on his hips, smirking at the sight of Macaria staring openly for a moment before looking away.  She was already showered and sitting on the bed in one of the robes provided by the modest hotel in Muggle London, flipping through The Prophet that she had snagged on their way out of the Ministry. 

“What were you going to tell me before everything happened?”

“Oh, well…” She straightened, running a hand through her damp hair. “I don’t suppose it matters now, but Hermione came by the night I showed you my memories. She’d been developing some arithmancy formula to track people based upon their history of dark magic and that’s how she found us.”

“What did she want?” His brows furrowed and he started on scouring his clothes. 

“To help,” she shrugged, idly playing with the end of the robe. “She’d had the idea that it 

wasn’t a random thing - all of this.”

“That was it?” He walked toward her, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Among other things. She didn’t have much that we didn’t already know,” Macaria’s lip quirked in a way that meant she was all too satisfied with that. 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” 

Draco wanted little more than to just let sleep overtake him, but he knew he wasn’t likely to have the chance to ask again anytime soon. 

“Your mother knew what your father had done. She tried to get me to marry you on more than one occasion,” Macaria looked slightly guilty at that. 

“So you’d have a claim to the Malfoy fortune if I died,” he scoffed. “How practical.”

“She didn’t tell me that she knew, but it connected after Theo and all.”

He winced slightly at the name, his hand gripping the edge of the mattress. He jumped when she moved a bit closer, heart racing as she let her fingers drift over his bare shoulder. 

“I do have something I want to ask you,” she said quietly, evenly. 

“That’s a first.”

She rolled her eyes, but continued, “do you have any idea how he found us?”

He hesitated, “I may have sent an owl.” He turned his head away, worried she may truly hex him something terrible. 

What he was not expecting was to hear her laughing, growing more genuine and distinct by the second. He looked at her, bewildered as she laid back on the bed, wrapped up in her mirth.

“What?”

“You- you just- oh Gods,” she covered her face with her hands. “I thought I had everything down to the wire, but I didn’t count on you being dumb-  _ hey! _ ” She shrieked as he grabbed her wrists, pinning them to either side of her head on the pillow.

“We both know things would be very different if one of us had been a little more informed,” he narrowed his eyes, though the openness in hers meant she knew it was an empty threat. 

“We’d still be back in New Orleans…” She shifted a little underneath him and he relaxed his grip, his fingers sliding up to lock with hers. “In the little flat above the shop.”

“Would we be doing this exact same thing?” The tip of his nose brushed against her own, his lips only inches away.

“If we go back, I have one more place to show you,” she said and he raised his brow, leaning back slightly. “I suppose we didn’t have time.”

“I’d like to go back,” he admitted. Something like excitement flashed in her eyes and she tilted her jaw up, pulling him into a heated kiss. 

He relaxed down into her, never letting his thoughts stray as he had her in his arms. Despite their mutual exhaustion, they both needed to feel alive, to feel in control, and to lose themselves where they knew they were safe. 

Where they had always been safe.

  
  


-

  
  


Weeks passed before Draco found himself on a cold and isolated island, wand handed off, and escorted down a long hallway to a visitor’s room.

His reunion with his mother was an explosive one. All of his confusion and betrayal and hurt welled up into an argument that nearly shook the walls of the Manor. Narcissa was angry with him, with Lucius, with Theo, and with herself. She had snapped like she never had before - shattering a few teacups and picture frames for good measure, collapsing to her knees and crying in his arms as they held one another. 

And then she apologized for every little thing that had gone wrong in his life. 

She wanted a chance to say something to Macaria - in person, for once - though there had been little time between their return and his appointment.

Macaria had gone back and forth between the States and London. He knew little of it all except that she was due to visit her parents and catch up with friends on either side of the Atlantic. He wasn’t keen on her spending time with the Weasley clan, but he rather liked the stable place they were in, so he didn’t say much beyond a few grumbles about it. 

He knew they had to talk about their situation. If they could even make it work or if they even wanted to try. He’d never felt anything like how he felt when he was with her. Dancing, bickering, running for their lives - it was something he would likely never experience again. Macaria was strength and hidden passion, integrity and violent strategy. She was beyond him and understood him in a way he’d never intended, but refused to hide from any longer.

He had to be better. 

Azkaban was exactly as cold and drenched as he remembered. The eerie feeling of never being able to escape crawled over his skin in a constant wave - in his mind, he may as well have been escorted back to the cell he’d called home for a year. 

It was a painful reminder of all he had done. All he had to atone for yet. 

The guard said nothing as he opened the door, standing aside and waiting for Draco to enter before closing it behind him. 

Lucius Malfoy sat stoic, hands clasped in chains and glancing about the room as if he had better places to be. His skin was haggard, his hair somewhat smoothed back but full of grime and the grey overpowering platinum. 

Draco, struck for the first time with the realization that his father was old. 

A prison cell had aged him, stripped him of his glamours in a way he wouldn’t recover from - and would never have the chance like his son. He’d gone and taken everything from his family and fate had decided he would lose all he had left.

“Father,” Draco said coolly, setting his hands on the back of the chair, deciding he would keep his advantages where he could find them. 

“ _ ‘Presumed dead _ ’,” Lucius whistled a low breath. “A shame. All this nasty business so long after all the battles and wars. We all fade away like smoke, eventually.” 

Dracos brows knitted slightly, the words prepared slipping from his mind. He wondered where the other man’s intentions laid then as he had no cards left to play. 

He didn’t know what to say then, looking down at the man meant to protect him and yet he’d committed so deeply to the opposite that he’d cost several other young lives in the process. He didn’t care about the consequences so long as he found his desired outcome.

“Are there any more vowed to kill me?” He settled on, his knuckles turning white on the chair.

“We all had Vows against us,” he eyed his son, the same steely grey he’d seen in the mirror his entire life. “Some more ornate than others.”

“You didn’t have the contingency on the Dark Lord losing? You were that careless?”

“The odds for a child defeating our Lord were...abysmal,” his long, thinned fingers stretched to a point at his chin. “Two failures in this line was an unsavory legacy.”

“As if I wasn’t a child fighting in the same war!” Draco felt blood rush up his neck, his heart pounding. “You’d rather risk our entire family, our entire line over the insecurity of disappointing a  _ dead man _ ?”

“I’d rather it died with you.”

Draco stepped away from the table, wishing desperately for his wand to throw a curse in his father’s damned pride. 

Though he knew little could break a Malfoy ego. 

“It ends here. You, rotting away in a prison cell, paying for your crimes until you die. Surrounded by nothing and no one except every little regret from your pathetic excuse at being a husband and a father. The Malfoy name will never carry the burden of your expectations.”

Draco Malfoy tore from the room, beyond the indignant shouts of his father, and swearing that he would never step foot in the damned place again. 

His arm burned and for that, he was grateful. 


	13. Epilogue

_ Five years later _

Draco Malfoy inhaled the stench of water-logged wood, smoke from stalling boats, and the subtle fresh breeze rising over the muddy Mississippi River. 

He fanned out his shirt, the thin button-down sticking to his skin as it usually did in the constant humidity. He felt the electricity in the air as a storm hovered nearby, though he knew the land's temperament by heart - he had just enough time. 

His Auror badge was stowed away in his trouser’s pocket, a heavy and constant reminder of something he had accomplished himself. Ranking high for his age and working internationally as much as he could. He enjoyed London and the time with his long-divorced mother, but he enjoyed his time in the American South for its warmth and just about everything else.

After two years in the small flat - and at the relentless pestering of his mother to have somewhere “acceptable” for company - Macaria had shown him the house she had seen once and never forgotten. It was quaint to her standards and horrendously small to his, but they’d compromised on some magical expansions to the two hundred year old building built by witches and long abandoned.

He couldn’t deny that he fell in love with the strange architecture, winding staircases, and mural of the rising sun on the eastern side. She was able to have her own study as she became a full time journalist, working on novels and magical studies. 

Sometimes she joined on his trips abroad, but mostly she kept to the city or would go east to visit her parents. He’d wonder if she was really happy sometimes, asking her if she’d want to attempt Auror training again.

“No, Draco, I don’t intend on saving your ass any more than I already have.”

He didn’t ask that again.

It had been three years since Lucius Malfoy died in prison. Killed by a guard in what had been ruled as a “provoked response” and left at that. His second sentencing had ensured he would never leave his cell, and ultimately - never did. 

They never had reversed their blood magic. Draco found other ways to track his magic for work, if he ever needed to, and Macaria had no real desire to visit the Queen again. 

Draco didn’t mind the constant ebb and flow of the Earth magic. It wound its way around his core as the years went on, binding him closer to the planet and closer to Macaria. He knew she felt it too, their understanding of each other growing deeper with proximity and time. 

He’d never known someone so well in his life.

Draco looked out to the water, the dock swaying under his feet, and he patted his pocket yet again. It was there and it was exactly what his mother had insisted on. 

He was thinking back to that first week in the city. When they couldn’t leave the flat without glamours and could barely stand each other’s presence. But still drawn to each other in that magnetic and powerful way. Something that they had felt become wanted and as a constant when they’d gotten into more than sex and escapism. 

It was that rare circumstance where it worked.

He hadn’t seen Macaria in about six weeks. Between an intense case in London and a traveling story, they hadn’t had time for more than a few letters and calls. 

He missed her, but he was also inclined to enjoy the one thing she hadn’t planned and wasn’t expecting. A few stolen moments to himself - to think of all that had led them there, to their favorite place in the world. 

Small hands slid around his waist from behind, her presence felt and comforting. She knew she couldn’t sneak up on him anymore and he hadn’t flinched in years.

“I missed you,” she leaned up to press her chin into his shoulder, moulding their bodies together. He leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes.

“I missed you,” he echoed, smiling into the sunshine. “How’s Athalie?”

“Haggling with botanists, up-selling tourists, as usual,” she hummed, matching his expression as he turned in her arms. A teasing lilt in her voice. “What brings you back to the swamp?”

“Oh, it’s you,” he exhaled slowly, searching her dark green eyes. “Always been you.”

Her smile deepened and she ran her hands over his bare forearms, always gently over the long scar. She pressed onto her tiptoes and kissed him. Macaria pulled back a little and looked down at the innocuous box-shaped lump in his pocket. 

“You can’t plan everything, you know,” Draco smirked. 

“I believe this is the one thing I am expected to plan,” she rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

He was silent for a moment then. He inhaled the fresh air and listened for the slow roll of thunder across the bayou. It’d probably be storming by the time they made it off the dock.

He bit back a laugh. It wasn’t perfect. It was an aggressively humid and random day. There wasn’t even a dinner reservation somewhere nice or a romantic escapade. 

It wasn’t everything they had dreamed of - but then again, maybe it was. 

“Now, have you got something to ask me?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

  
  
  


_ The End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love on my first fic! I'm glad to have finally gotten this story out of my brain.  
> There will be a significantly longer Dramione fic on the horizon, so keep a look out in the next few weeks for the first chapter.


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